The cyclical nature of the calendar year draws and elicits different emotions and behaviors within me as the days, weeks, months pass. In summer, I can fly high as a kite, soar as an eagle over rugged terrain. My mouth becomes unhinged, espousing thoughts and revelations with the rapidity of a firing machine gun. I will dance, I will cry, but I am alive, and I know it. Fall and winter bottom me out, reduce me to the final dregs in a mug of coffee, existing as the grainy remnants of ground coffee beans holding their apocalyptic collective before their impending annihilation. Spring, however, holds a certain significance, a certain beauty. There is a mystery in spring that stops the clocks, if but for a moment, and I live unencumbered. What a tease, this minuscule period of respite. Though I inevitably return to the daily grind of fighting the beast, I am reminded that there rests within me an innate part to which I am inextricably bound, that cannot be taken away or sequestered. Its existence is indistinguishable and its code indecipherable.
What begins in a state of shining, iridescent glory becomes tarnished as the year progresses. My soul collects the hurt and anguish I endure. I am able to fight, to polish the tarnished silver, but my receptacle gradually fills with the aftermath of colliding tempestuous elements. My psyche can fight for only so long. With each battle there leaves a film of dust, a memento of the conflict and pain that occurred. I cannot cleanse as quickly as the dust collects, and my receptacle becomes home to hosts unwelcome. Come springtime, my soul chokes and spittles as it tries to speak through layer upon layer of dust and dirt amassed through noonday and eventide battles. The cherry blossoms and blooming tulips serve as the reminder that I have a choice, in fact an obligation, to my own progress and the searching for and attainment of truth, for what greater truth can be discerned in the emptying of one’s receptacle, casting aside the detriment of the world and polishing the silver laying inherent beneath the surface, the facade.
The truth and beauty of this world can only be attained through the process of purging impurities in order to make room for the sweet nectars that pour forth in abundance, if one searches ardently and earnestly. Spring has always served as a reminder for me to do so, but I have come to the realization that the process of renewal and rebirth is a constant, perpetual one. I must empty my receptacle in order to live, for should I neglect, I will succumb to the dust and dirt hiding the recipes and inscriptions for health, happiness, and the secrets to the unencumbered existence.