The gods arrive sideways. — Martin Shaw
Dear Springhouse community,
I hope this letter finds you well as we enter the rhythms of early spring. In these letters, I am continuing the exploration of what the Mystery, or the source of life, means to me and to us at Springhouse. This month, I’ve been noticing how the Mystery often comes to us through surprises—small and large.
Spring is the perfect season to be talking about surprises, defined by the Oxford dictionary as “an unexpected or astonishing event, fact, or thing.” All I have to do is walk down my road to experience them. Today, I saw white daffodils for the first time this year blooming on my neighbor’s farm. Last week they weren’t there, and now they are. Each white bloom reminds me that ultimately, I am not in charge.
Each month we help with projects at one another’s homes, and this past month was at Sarah and Ian’s. After we finished our work, we shared a potluck meal. As we were talking and eating together, something delightful happened. I watched as Aurora, their daughter, methodically placed small pieces of food on her head as she ate her lunch. Every few minutes, a bit of egg, sausage, or broccoli would find its way atop her fuzzy little head. Her parents said, “That’s how she saves her food.” I watched with utter hilarity as she later removed each piece and ate it, one by one. I have never seen a child do this with such intention. The possibilities of creativity are far bigger than me.
My husband goes down to the river almost every day, usually in the dark hours of dawn, and jumps into the freezing cold Little River. Every Sunday, with great excitement, he brings up the game cam he has set nearby, eager to see if there will be any surprises. For years, he has mostly seen deer and the occasional squirrel, and only once or twice a black bear. This past weekend, while I was out for a walk, he sent a photo to our family text thread. Much to my astonishment, it was a good-sized bobcat walking past one of our pines. In all these years, the bobcat is the last thing we expected to see—another reminder that we only know so much, especially about the life that surrounds us.
Back in September, for my birthday, Springhouse staff member Sarah Pollock gave me a small plant cutting that was beginning to root in a handmade cup. One part of the plant looked green and vital; the other stem was brown and limp. After a few days, I cut the brown stem to help the other grow stronger. Just last week, during our morning seasonal meditation, I noticed that the place where I had cut the stem had sprouted a new shoot. I never in a million years thought that something new would grow from what looked dead. It is easy to forget that life comes from death—especially in a culture that resists death by clinging to youth and growth.
Finally, many of you know that I have been living with what my oncologist calls a “manageable cancer.” It is a lymphoma that shows up in my skin (not skin cancer). I visit my oncologist and dermatologist every three months for tests, bloodwork, and simple treatment if needed. This lymphoma appears as small, hard bumps, usually at my hairline, and they tend to persist. For the past two years, there has not been a single visit where I didn’t need steroid injections. I often find myself checking, running my fingers along my hairline. This past month, I have not noticed a single new bump. This is a welcome surprise, to say the least—and once again a reminder that my body and the mystery of how it heals and regenerates are something I will never fully understand.
So as you can see, I have been surprised this month. I am celebrating these surprises, and all that spring brings, in our morning seasonal meditations with a steadfast community of adults—some of whom I have been practicing with for several years now. It is a beautiful thing to be present to constant change and to what emerges from life, all within the container of community, rooted in place over time here in rural Appalachia.
Surprises remind me that I am not at the center of life. I know that might be obvious for many of you, but for much of my young life, I coped by believing I was more powerful than I truly was. Old ways die hard, and much of my adulthood has been a slow remembering of my place in this miraculous and deeply troubled world. Life flows on its own terms, not mine. The Mystery does not organize itself around my expectations. Surprises remind me of that—whether they bring delight or devastation.
Becoming more of who we are—as people and as a community—involves many surprises. I am grateful to be in a place that is open to surprise. I invite you to join us at Springhouse, as we continue to wake up more fully to who we are as a community, and what we are here for. We have opportunities in Floyd County for adults to continue learning about themselves (like Sacred Dance every Wednesday), as well as an online platform to support the learning and development of adults near and far. You can learn more here.
Thank you for reading. May we open to the surprises life brings—and learn what they have to teach us,
Jenny
Aurora may be thinking “that’s amazing”!