"You can cut branches of forsythia before they bloom and bring them inside and they will bloom quicker."
It was Western Easter a few years ago and we were at my mom and dad's. Large branches of forsythia were in a vase on the windowsill, bright with yellow blossoms that defied the remains of winter outside. I still remember how surprised I was at my mom's words; how surprised I was that I didn't know this before.
Forsythia is the first plant to bloom in the Northeast. Its buds begin turning to stunning yellow flowers as the first days of spring arrive.
I remember my mom's words as I put large branches into a white pitcher and smaller ones into a jar. The buds shyly peek out and I imagine them to be scared; scared that if they make a commitment and leave their plant cocoon, they will be betrayed by our fickle weather. I know how they feel. I know this is anthropomorphizing at its finest, but I don't care. I still imagine we are comrades in our fight against winter's never end date.
I realize as I arrange the branches that I am desperate for forsythia - desperate for a sign of spring, a sign of hope, a sign of new life. When all around feels dead, when relationships feel strained without reason, when I anxiously look toward the horizon, longing for Pascha when it is still Lent - this is when I need forsythia. This is when I need hope, this is when I need to know that what I see now is not the end of the story.
So my husband cuts large branches of forsythia and we stick them in water. We force them to bloom. We look for bright, beautiful yellow blossoms to fill our house and our lives.
...I need to know that what I see now is not the end of the story.
Often healing begins by embracing beauty, by voicing gratitude for the amazing signs of life that surround us, by expressing thanks for what is, instead of longing for what is not.
So we resolutely cut and arrange the forsythia, waiting for bright, yellow blossoms to fill the room.
And we begin to hope.
