We Didn’t Know We Were Ready
— a story for crossing thresholds, for winter turning into spring —
Many forgotten memories ago, there was a girl who lived in a field surrounded by tall white oak trees. No one knew about this girl, about this field, about these trees. It could’ve been any field, any field at all. The oak trees, however, were grand, two hundred years old or more, and the earth beneath, holding up everything, was as old as time itself. On this particular afternoon, the sky hung pillow-like above the girl’s head. The wind barely stirred, the birds held in their song, and the world seemed silent and still with waiting. Waiting for what? The girl wondered this as the first flake fell, a big crystal thing, and wondered still as the sky suddenly released its powdery magic, soft downy flakes falling not sleek and sharp like rain, but slow and playful like confetti—floating, taking care, suspending time and widening out the invisible space above, around, and below. The girl smiled as her young self peeked out from its hiding place, just in time to gather her mittens and throw her hands up in the air—tongue out, eyes shining, heart gliding.
Time before didn’t exist and she didn’t know what came after, but she knew the measure of now and its many shades of sadness. She knew what it meant to retreat so that life could not touch her. She knew what it meant to renounce her heart. This moment, with the sting of air breathing red into her cheeks, felt different, and so she waited, anticipating a gift from Old Grand Winter. Three long years having been away. Three long years having not come out to play. Her young self remembered here. In the promise of anticipation, in the sky falling down, down, down, spilling over with white feathers. She remembered her legs and how they moved, her lungs burning sweetly as she ran, fresh tracks stretching out behind. Reaching the far end of her field, she stood rooted as a weathered oak, snow circling the air around her. Stilling her heart. Waiting, always waiting. Waiting for what?
Above her, an Elder released eight branches, quietly and without any fanfare, heavy with the weight of accumulated snow. The root of the word “grief” is to make heavy, and the girl wondered about the alchemy of this, about the parts of her that could also break away under too much weight, quietly and without any fanfare. How much could she stand to lose and remain herself? The oak was still an oak. Eight branches lighter and still grand. Eight branches lighter and still patient in its knowing. Eight branches lighter and still rooted to the invisible vastness of an underground sea. A diminishing can cross the threshold into becoming, at a certain quality and a certain weight, and the girl wondered about the alchemy of this, wondered also about the alchemy of breathing red into the cheeks. Was the glow inside, always, and how did the slow spell of Old Grand Winter bring it out? What was it about these eight branches and their crooked shapes that called forth something from deep inside? The girl walked to each one, leaning in and over. “What secrets do you have for me?” she whispered. “Waiting for what?”
The confetti swirled and she knew something was forming, that shapes were being made in the invisible air above, around, and below. Settling down, settling down. She remembered something from long ago— moving to a new place, starting fresh. She remembered feeling like this was it, like this was the start of everything, dreams unfolding beneath her feet. She remembered her light, at first so bright and warm and golden, dimming as the days, weeks, months, and years went by. Dreams crumbling beneath her feet. She remembered the world falling apart. People continents away suffering. Neighbors suffering. A beloved parent suffering. The future of a little one at the mercy of a world ruled by tyrants. The best of people getting dealt the worst of cards. The pain of lost possibilities. The pain of not being seen or known. She remembered curling up and releasing all her tears, but more they seemed to come and never stop, feeling heavier and heavier for all that she released and released. Crumbled dreams at her feet.
She couldn’t remember anything after that—just this field, her home away from home, her ungreat unknown. The branches called to her. Dreams floating down from the sky and up from her feet. “What secrets do you have for me?” she whispered again, and the stillness whispered back, leaning in and over. They seemed to want more from her. Waiting. Waiting for what?
“I don’t know what to say,” she said, finally. The silence answered. “Is there an end to grief? she asked. The silence answered. “What if I can’t control losing the things I love?” The silence answered. “What are all the things that make a home?” The silence answered. “Will there be anyone left to greet me?” The silence answered. “Can I ever forgive myself for leaving?” The silence answered. “Can I ever forgive myself for staying?” The silence answered. “How do I keep the red coming back to my cheeks?” The silence answered. “But—” The girl hesitated. “But, what if I fail?” The silence answered. “And—” The girl hesitated once more, her voice cracking like ice. “What if all I ever do is fail, and fail again?” The silence held her.
The sun sank unnoticed behind opaque curtains of white. The snowy clouds above, the snowy clouds below. A night shining still and quiet in the way only something cloaked by Old Grand Winter can. The girl felt held in a way she’d always longed for, and she slept a deep, dreamless sleep, confetti all around her. As she rested, the warm glow inside her chest grew from the refuge of her basic goodness, from the sanctuary of her profound peace, from ember to spark to steady flame. Quietly and without any fanfare, the warmth grew and there it remained, so that when the girl woke the next morning, she felt different in a way she could not explain.
The sun was shining, the snow melting, brown grass peeking out from underneath. For a moment, the girl closed her eyes, wishing to go back, calling on Old Grand Winter. So short was the visit, she asked for one more night. Tears came as confetti turned to dust before her eyes. She squinted against the sun. This is a threshold you must cross. The silence spoke. You will never feel ready, and yet… The girl bowed her head. She took a deep breath. We dream of the way the world could be. We release these dreams, catapulting them sky-high into the immensity before us, accepting that we can’t possibly know whether our wishes will come true in the way we hope. We do it anyway. This is resilient hope. We cherish the possibilities, knowing that the substance our dreams are made of—all of our longings for beauty and love and truth—these are the benedictions we get to keep. The substance of our dreams, not the outcome, is what is ultimately good and unbreakable in us. Living for a future we can’t quite imagine matters. We fight for a better world no matter the odds because to do anything else diminishes our humanity, diminishes our depth of connection to life. To do anything else is to betray ourselves, is to betray the little ones of whom we are future ancestors, is to betray our living planet, which is our past, present, and future. We let go of needing to know the ending when we make our wishes, our dreams themselves being what matters and what we can’t live without.
The girl lifted her head, the trunk of her body straightening to look out and over the path before her feet. One season recedes and another comes to take its place, for now. The girl wondered how long it would take her eyes to adjust to the new brightness. “I’ll never feel ready, and yet…” She gathered up her gratitude for Old Grand Winter, for the playful confetti and her young self remembered there. She touched one branch, the words “thank you” on her lips, and watched as the branch vanished with the melting snow. She touched another and another and another. She felt the glow of her heart beating, alive, and in this aliveness her wishes came, quietly and without any fanfare. Four branches left, waiting. Waiting for what? She knew now, wondered at how she had gone so long without knowing. Upon hearing her wish, the fifth branch began to rise, higher and higher before launching itself forward and disappearing swiftly out of sight over the horizon. The sixth, seventh, and eighth followed, and she knew that whatever happened now was out of her hands, that she had done all she could. She closed her eyes and remembered that the warm sun could also bring red to her cheeks. She wondered about the alchemy of winter turning into spring. Perhaps there were many paths to the same place.
She took a step away from her field, her home away from home, her ungreat unknown. The substance of her dreams vibrant and glowing inside her. Stoked back to life in the refuge of a cold winter’s night. Waiting. Waiting for what? For the courage to cross thresholds with the conviction that though everything may change, our longings and the goodness they spring out of, are ours to keep. No matter what. We carry the felt sense of the rooted and changeless virtue at the heart of everything. We carry the felt sense of the vastness of the ocean beneath our feet. We live for all possibilities. We may never feel ready, and yet…
