Life has come back to us full force. Everything is green and beautiful. Looking around, you would never know that winter had happened to us such a short time ago. But the world is perennial, and each year the whole thing comes spilling back dramatically. The hidden roots of life contain much energy, and they sleep in the dark of the Underworld as if dead until a secret signal is sent. Then, all of a sudden, they burst forth with amazing power.
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| Hidden in the Underworld. |
It was always taught to me that we humans are certainly not perennials. We don’t die
back and then return with amazing and increased vigor after receiving a secret
signal from Persephone. We stubbornly
hang on to our life’s energy, watching it wane a bit each year until it is no
more. We have no secret roots that
contain hidden powers. When we are dead,
we are dead. Or so we are told.
It sure seems that everything else--the plants and even the fish and
animals--is a perennial. It dies and
then comes back to life. The “annual”
plants that make seed and “die” at the end of the year seem to crop back up
from the hidden power in their seeds.
The animals do this, too. Even
though they may die, they are replaced each year with stunning replicas. Who’s to say there isn’t a hidden seed of
power they leave behind? And who’s to
say it’s not the same animal that has come back?
So maybe they're wrong wrong.
Maybe I’m a perennial, too.
There’s only one way to find out for sure, and I’m not ready yet for
that one-way excursion. I’ve decided
that while I’m here, I’ll operate under the supposition that I am a perennial,
and I’ll leave secret seeds and old roots of myself everywhere. They will be hidden in words and deeds and
actions. They will be buried in memories
and ideas. They will be rooted in spirit
and the sleep of the Underworld.
After I die, spring will return again as it always
does. You can’t stop the stampede of spring. The secret signal will be given and received
as it always is, has been, and will be.
What will grow then? I can’t say
for sure, but look for me in the old oaks.
Look for me in poems. Look for me
in the odd ideas that creep unbidden into the mind. If my seeds have survived, you’ll find me.
