You Are Held
The Ending is the Beginning
When I walk among the evergreens—the ancient, wise ones—I feel no need to prove myself. I feel inherently welcome.
When I sit and listen to the crashing waves, there is no judgment, only possibility. Their rhythm gently soothes me, reminding me that joy returns just as surely as it recedes.
I dread the bare grey of winter, when the trees look long gone. And yet I’m relieved each spring, when fresh leaves and blossoms return. Every spring feels like a miracle.
But I don’t see these miracles in myself so easily.
I struggle to trust that the waves in me will return, that the leaves will grow back—stronger, fuller. In nature, I marvel as they slowly fade, bursting into radiant color before letting go.
In me, I mourn and grieve and grasp tightly as they fall away.
How can I learn to trust my own seasons?
When things, people, and work fall away.
I rejoice in the arrival of something new.
I’m revived by hope, motivation, fresh ideas, and the willingness to begin again.
But I struggle with the ending—
which is also the beginning
that my human eyes can’t yet see.
Today, I simply notice the dogwood tree’s buds.
I admire their return.
And I wait for mine.
And then I remember:
The seeds I’ve planted may be quietly watered by the tears I shed
as I let go of what once was
to nurture what’s to come.
