The following is a reflection I gave for a Spring Equinox ceremony in 2024. It was inspired by Joyce Rupp’s poem, Arise and Come, which is at the end of the reflection.

When spring unfolds in Portland, it’s hard to ignore the incredible sense of renewal that fills the air. When I go outside, I’m greeted by flowers of all different kinds and colors along with the buzzing enthusiasm of my neighbors who are finally out and about after hibernating through a long, cold and dark winter. Yet, the leaves on the trees are still growing and the chill and rain of winter still lingers. It’s like spring is here and not here yet, inviting us to savor the slow unfolding. The flowers don’t all bloom at once, each kind waits until the time is right as if they hear a gentle whisper to “arise and come.” Witnessing Portland go through this blooming process each year is very special. It feels like getting to see an artistic masterpiece in the works. I find myself pausing frequently to appreciate their beauty.

As we contemplate our own growth during this season’s renewal, it’s natural to ponder what it means for us as humans to truly bloom. We often measure our progress against societal benchmarks such as career milestones, relationship statuses, or other personal achievements. Yet reaching an achievement will still come with hardships that can make us question if we’ve really reached the point of “blooming.” So what does it mean for us, humans, to hear our own call to “arise and come”?

While I was considering this, I remembered a moment in my own journey, when I was ready to come out to my grandmother. My grandmother was a Catholic woman of deep faith. She attended mass and prayed the rosary daily. We bonded because I also loved going to mass and she was very enthusiastic about the many years I was spending to discern religious life as a nun. Needless to say, I wasn’t sure how coming out to her would go.

It was a sunny day in Brooklyn, New York and I was driving her around the city when I suddenly felt the time was right. After I shared, she paused for several anxiety inducing moments before she responded… with her support. She said something along the lines of, “Well, if you plan to introduce me to someone you should do it soon. I don’t know how many years I have left.” At that moment, it was her response I focused on and felt relieved to hear. But now, it’s her moment of silence that I find myself returning to. I don’t know what happened to my grandmother in the several moments I waited for her to reply. Perhaps if she responded right away she would have given me a different answer, one that fit inside the comfort of her worldview and reflected decades of ingrained beliefs. She has now passed so I can’t ask her what happened but I think perhaps in her own way, she heard the call to “arise and come.”

As I reflect on that moment now, I think that perhaps for humans, maybe blooming doesn’t have to do with cultural milestones. Rather, it is an ongoing process, a continuous invitation to listen for the call to “arise and come” in each moment.

True blooming, I think, lies in our willingness to unfold into the fullness of our being and come home to ourselves by remembering our inherent connection to all of life. When I was younger I often made space for silence because I knew I should, but the older I get the more valuable silence becomes and the more I feel my body’s need for it. It’s a practice of self-emptying, to invite our brain to stop planning and trying to figure things out. When we are silent we have a chance to listen, observe, and respond, rather than react. Silence offers us the chance to not immediately fill our mental space with preconceived ideas in order to make space for new possibilities. Silence asks nothing more from us than to just be.

There is a lot of noise and countless things competing for our attention, especially right now. Western culture has taught us to avoid silence so practicing it can feel deeply uncomfortable. Yet like anything else, it’s important to find balance. With so much noise it can be easy to forget how deeply connected we all actually are.

When I gaze at the beautiful spring flowers, the vastness of a starry sky, or other expressions of creations’ majesty I find myself drifting into silence organically. Creation has a way of helping us remember the importance of pausing and stepping into wonder. This wonder contains whispers from the Divine, not in a way that needs to hear a voice, but allows us to sense a presence beyond ourselves that connects all of creation. I think deep down we know we are all connected and we can feel that connection in the depths of our hearts. I think silence moves that awareness upward to the forefront of our conscious and creates ongoing shifts in the way we see and move through the world. I am reminded of Thomas Keating’s quote, “Silence is God’s first language; everything else is a poor translation.”

I believe I witnessed my grandmother bloom that day. She continues to inspire me to pause and listen for the call to “arise and come.” Similar to how flowers reach towards the sun, we too are called to stretch beyond the confines of our comfort zones and embrace the transformative power of love. My prayer is that we make space for silence in the midst of all the noise, that we remember our inherent connection and in doing so tap into the creativity of the Earth to repair the web of life.

Arise and Come by Joyce Rupp

Sturdy, deep green tulip shoots.

How did they know
it was time to push up through the long-wintered soil?

How did they know
it was the moment to resurrect,
while thick layers of stubborn ice
still pressed the bleak ground flat?

But the tulips knew.

They came, rising strongly,
a day after the ice died.

There’s a hope-filled place in me
that also knows when to rise,
that waits for the last layer of ice
to melt into obscurity.

It is urged by the strong sun
warming my wintered heart.
It is nudged by the Secret One,
calling, calling, calling:
“Arise, my love, and come.”

My heart stirs like dormant tulips
and hope comes dancing forth.

Not unlike the Holy One
kissing the morning sun,
waving a final farewell
to a tomb emptied of its treasure.