Early in the morning a song thrush trills and sings from the electricity cable. How the world can offer such beauty and ugliness all at once is a conundrum indeed.
The first redcurrants are filling out. The blackcurrants, too. Bouquets of forget-me-nots adorn the lawn and clusters of bluebells sit at the base of one of the birch trees, alongside a flower I do not know with white petals and tiny, delicate freckles of pink and yellow.
Speaking of the birch trees, they went from leafless skeletons to full green blooms seemingly overnight. Spring always seems to come in one giant rush.
The first lettuce have been hardened off and planted outside. I’ve planted rocket, mizuna and radish, too. Indoors I’ve planted parsley, basil, and have some more lettuce seedlings growing strong.
I had hoped to be much further along. I had hoped to have new raised beds made and a thorough planting plan in progress. But I have overestimated myself again and am having to learn patience. I am always having to learn patience.
I’ve been pondering on the question of why we suffer. I remembered how, years ago, I met a woman who was healing from significant trauma. I empathised. I felt compassion. And yet I also thought, that’s not me, I don’t have trauma. And I realise now that I must have thought that I would never know trauma, that I was somehow immune.
All these years later, I am the woman healing through personal trauma whilst realising that, personal trauma or not, there is collective trauma for all of us.
Through the story of my own trauma, I remembered this woman and was humbled. I realised again how I should try not to presume things about others or myself. Now I will be able to understand others healing through trauma just a little bit better. I will understand just a little bit more. It will help me be kinder.
It is not an answer to why we suffer. Who can give a certain answer to such a question? But it offers some measure of meaning and purpose to our suffering.
And so my progress is slower than I would like but I am still making progress, no matter how slow or imperfect it is. Now is a good time to remember the tale of the hare and tortoise. Speed does not always produce the best results.
Love and courage,