This I Believe

I believe in the power of nature to reveal the life that is inside of me.

Winters dragged on and on in my childhood. All I could see were endless days composed of muddy brown trees against dirty white skies. Silent questions haunted my young mind. Why did nature have to die each autumn? Would spring visit me again? I hated being by myself amongst all the death.

Perhaps I mimicked nature, but in the way that I saw and understood her. The parts of me that could be shared or seen by others were like the living parts of nature – dogwoods in bloom, a strawberry just lifted from a local patch, still warm and tasting of sunshine. I dearly loved spring as a little girl and teenager, but it also sparked enormous anxiety within. Winter will come again.

Just as I saw winter as ‘dead,’ I saw any part of me that was not bright or cheerful as unwelcome, unwanted, dead. I convinced myself that no one could truly love winter, especially my winters.

I spent years in extravagant efforts to shield the outside world from my internal winters – the rawness I could feel, the jagged limbs of uncertain feelings and fears. Life was so much easier when foliage softened the rough texture, rounded out the crooked branches inside. I made desperate attempts to cloak the nakedness of my feelings. I would cover the deep loneliness and hidden acts of self-destruction with threats of suicide if they would attempt to emerge into view. I was certain that no one wanted to see all of me.

While in college I was introduced to the visual language of paint. I learned to truly look at my surroundings by divorcing myself from quick assumptions and broad generalizations. To my surprise, life and hope began to emerge. Colors were present all around, waiting to be seen, even in the dead of winter. Perhaps there were colors worth looking at in the other parts of me?

As I was driving home the other day, across the mountains of Maryland and eastern West Virginia, the afternoon light that was cast upon the landscape reminded me that winter is not dead at all. Nature was not only alive, but she was blushing. The life that each tree was holding rose to the surface in warm oranges that heated up into reds. The outstretched shadows of cool, yet assertive violets helped to distinguish each tree, encouraging their warm glow while also rooting them to their specific origin.

Nature does not hide her rawness, does not label certain parts ugly and shove them to the side as not to be revealed. Perhaps I don’t have to hide my ragged edges, my winters, for that is what makes me human and speaks to the life that is inside of me.