I have these lovely day lilies in my front flower bed. (If you know me well, you know that flowers aren't really my thing, but there's something about the day lilies that always makes me smile.)
They are spring embodied in fragile flesh.
Every year, they rise from the ground, golden phoenixes from the ashes of winter. Hopeful. Alive.
But the thing that gets me is that even as they begin to bloom in the spring, they also begin to die. By the time I get around to weeding around them, there are always multiple dead strands among the living. It used to bother me, pulling away those brown, dried-up pieces. It seemed heartless, wrong.
The more I think about it, though, it's the opposite. You have to prune away what is dead to make room for the living.
And every time I cull the dead leaves, life erupts in glorious splendor, as though they were just waiting for the opportunity to be free from the stranglehold of death before they could bloom.
I wonder about that. I wonder what happens when you are brave enough to cut away the parts of your life that are dead or no longer growing.
What change then comes?
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