Unfolding

Most years, spring in Minnesota unfolds with grace and patience as the cold and dark of winter recede into memory. In our yard, the first hint that we have truly turned the corner into newness is the arrival of the birds: just a few a first, and within weeks there is not a quiet moment from dawn to dusk. Then the leaves bud from earth to sky and gulp down the daylight, feeding the plants after the long fast of winter.

After 14 years here, I have become attuned to this rhythm: birds – buds – leaves – flowers. But as comfortable as this rhythm has become, it also remains full of mystery. Which tulips will have survived the hungry squirrels and long winter. Whether the iris and lilies will bloom well in spite of the fact that we should have split them years ago. How the newly transplanted hydrangea and peonies will fare. If the owls will return to roost so high in our evergreen that the only evidence of their existence is the loud hooting we hear at dusk.

In a few short hours I will break out of this comfortable rhythm of Minnesota summer just as most of my backyard mysteries have been solved. For those keeping score at home: the squirrels left the tulips alone, the iris and lilies bloomed, the transplants are thriving, the owls are back. I am heading across the pond to England to join a cohort of scholars from around the world; each of us will be developing our own research at the intersection of science and religion. Our summer will become full of a different sort of unfolding – of new ideas and friendships, questions, theories, more questions, and perhaps the occasional answer.

It seemed an apt time to create a space to think and wonder in community. I’m glad you’re here!