Friday’s writing prompt is a single word, “spring.” What does the word mean to you? No-one in our group was much enthused about writing for ten minutes about a mundane word like “spring” but we did, and we each attached a different meaning to the word.
One storyteller wrote about spring cleaning and how she brainstorms creative projects while she pushes a vacuum around the house. Another writer became a tour guide in the barren desert landscape of Ethiopia, where a water hole really is a living metaphor for the resilience of Earth and its people. Another time-writing traveler whisked us to Old Town America, when mothers made spring dresses for their daughters and prepared trays of home baked breakfast goodies for community gatherings. Maybe Spring is a season, a time to wear less clothing, a time for the birds and bees. Or not. Maybe spring is a coil of metal, or a sound—a voice that groans every time it is stretched awake to welcome you home.
Spring. For me it’s a time of mystical, hidden themes like a table set for Persian New Year, full of ancient symbols. Spring is a relentless medicine, a prescription of healthy day-capsules filled with more sunshine than darkness. It is an assortment of stories with secret messages, and a series of mysterious beginnings that eclipse every ending. Once it was a nerve-racking Easter holiday when I was introduced to my husband’s family, another time it was an Easter Sunday of bewilderment when I had a miscarriage. Spring furls open with a new message every year. This year’s secret motif, and my Lenten contemplation, is to gather stories of compassion, sometimes a heavy topic, sometimes inspirational.
Spring is mutable. As I type on an overcast day, I feel like planning for the summer and planting dreams as hopefully as a farmer ploughs his crops into the earth, wishing for abundance and a better future for all.