Time Again
When I was very young, I used to accompany my dad and folks at our church as they played basketball against the monks of Conception Abbey in Northwest Missouri. I don’t remember many of the details, aside from the movement of bodies and object up at down the court. At the time, I had no idea what conception event meant. In fact, I tend to think that my young mind considered the place as one long word: consepshunabby. Now, I’ve learned enough to know that it’s named for the miraculous conception of the Virgin Mary, which some traditions hold was an immaculate conception just like Jesus (hints: Catholics yes; Orthodox no; Protestants will furrow their brows if you even bring it up).
Yellow haze blankets North Carolina. The Longleaf pines are flowering in their own way and their pollen coats the cars and the shoes and the streets and the buildings and and and. On breezy days, there are clouds of the stuff wafting in the breeze. The earth is here now to procreate. It is pregnant with possibility if the pines have anything to say about it. The fruit is not here, but the conceiving is happening all around us.
We’re transitioning from dormancy to that which looks and feels more like life. There are smells to smell and seasons to taste. Our metabolism — ecological and personal, perhaps — emerges from hibernation. Such is the effect of rest. After time in the quiet dark, alone, our stores allow us to create new things. To conceive of fresh ideas. To enjoy the pregnancy of possibilities.
Our vision has us dancing in meadows and spreading our toes in cool grass. This deep green time will come soon enough. For now, we are invited enjoy the yellower tints. Conceive.
What might we conceive of now?
My Lenten Spotify playlist is growing. Take a listen: