When Buds Burst

Of Course It Hurts, by Karin Boye (Translation by Jenny Nunn)

Of course it hurts when buds burst.
Otherwise why would spring hesitate?
Why would all our fervent longing
be bound in the frozen bitter haze?
The bud was the casing all winter.
What is this new thing, which consumes and bursts?
Of course it hurts when buds burst,
pain for that which grows
    and for that which envelops.

Of course it is hard when drops fall.
Trembling with fear they hang heavy,
clamber on the branch, swell and slide –
the weight pulls them down, how they cling.
Hard to be uncertain, afraid and divided,
hard to feel the deep pulling and calling,
yet sit there and just quiver –
hard to want to stay
     and want to fall.

Then, at the point of agony and when all is beyond help,
the tree's buds burst as in jubilation,
then, when fear no longer exists,
the branch's drops rumble in a shimmer,
forgetting that they were afraid of the new,
forgetting that they were fearful of the journey –
feeling for a second their greatest security,
resting in the trust
		that creates the world.

Happy Spring! The first day of Spring here was sunny and in the 40s, but a cool wind blew. Cool air did not dissuade me from hanging laundry on the line outside for the first time in 2024, however. If there is one good thing, it is the smell of laundry fresh from the line. If there is another good thing, it is letting the sun and air dry the laundry instead of making the electric meter rack up charges.

A friend shared Karin Boye's poem with me 20 years ago or so, and I have loved it ever since. I reread it every spring. When I do, usually the image of spring hesitating lingers in my mind's eye. Perhaps that is because spring often does seem to hesitate where I live. In fact, this morning a light blanket of snow covered the ground, and my windshield wipers were frozen to the windshield. Even though we had little snow here this winter, I am well aware than it can sometimes snow as late as May. Indeed, last spring I planted my tomatoes a week or so before Memorial Day. A few nights later, we had a killing frost. Before the sun went down that evening, I scurried around the yard, covering my tomato plants with anything I could find to keep them warm.

But when I read Karin Boye's poem today, what captured my attention was the notion of jubilation pushing fear aside. I don't think of jubilation as being the opposite of fear, but I think there can be jubilation in letting go. My heart fills with joy when I imagine the tree shaking limbs covered with newly sprouted leaves and sending a shower of water droplets earthward.

There is plenty to fear in our world. And there are plenty of those who would capitalize on that reality. The news media taps our fears when they choose stories and headlines to publish: Fear sells. Politicians and pundits seed fear to keep us in their thrall: Promoting and exacerbating fear can be a good way to control people.

I do not mean to denigrate fear. It is just a feeling, after all, and it's a useful one because it lets us know when we are in danger. Fear activates the most primitive part of our brain, the reptilian brain that controls our breathing and heartbeat and generates a fight or flight response in the presence of terror. Those instinctual reactions – to fight or flee – can save lives.

But here's a problem linked to fear and our fight or flight responses: People have a hard time thinking when they are frightened. Now, if I am being attacked by a rabid dog, I may not want to pause to do a deep intellectual analysis of all the possibilities. Far preferable would be to get away from the dog in any way possible. In contrast, so many of the world’s problems are deep and complex. Solutions require thought, not reactivity. Living in a world where the 24/7 news cycle generates shocking headlines to try to gain my attention and politicians feel compelled to make outlandish and scary statements to capture my fear-based vote, I find it useful to manage my fears so that I can think straight. Before reacting, it can help simply to say wait … breathe … steady … breathe … calm … breathe ...

I can hesitate, just as spring does, but then move forward in a thoughtful manner. After all, the bud that doesn't ever open simply shrivels and dies without passing life on, and the water droplet that never falls from the branch doesn't bring healing moisture to the soil below.

I can be the bud that opens, rather than shrivel up and die. I can be the water droplet that falls, rather than clinging to the branch. I can embody the trust that, in moving forward, continually creates the world. For me, there is jubilation in that.

Love, Sylvia

(And, speaking of buds that burst, look at what I found blooming on my lawn on the exact first day of spring.)