This week was full of new growth. Everything is budding, leaves are beginning to open, and blooms are shining with full faces to the late-winter sun.
Down here in southern Appalachia, that is—my New Englander pals continue to stumble through cold snaps and snow and my dear friend working in Yosemite told me “The weather is trying to kill me!” as she fled from the California blizzard toward avalanche risks in Colorado.
Here in Asheville, I’m enjoying the gleeful act of cutting daffodils and discovering new gentle blossoms on different corners of my new home.
When I came to visit the US from Thailand, I had every intention to return. My first week back was November, with a few scraggly fall leaves still clinging to their branches. Driving the mountain roads that I know and love so well, passing frost-capped Balsam mountain, a question dropped into my mind like a foreign object. When have I last seen spring in these mountains?
That question left a shimmering wake in my mind. I’ve seen fall here semi-recently, in 2020 when living in remote hills with my mother. And my Christmas is always here, surrounded by family. But spring. When did I last watch the slow creep of green rise like a jolly contagion up from the valleys to the pine-capped tops?
Like a bell ringing in my chest, I knew I wanted to witness spring again. And spring here. In this region where I was born and went to school; it’s been a decade since I watched spring unfurl in my home.
Now I’ve got strawberries planted and am watching leaves widen their palms and wave at me like infants’ hands, inordinately soft in miniature. I got sunburnt yesterday for the first time since leaving the tropics. The joy of green things warms me. So, in celebration of what feels like spring’s arrival (though the equinox is over two weeks away), I’d like to share some collected words about spring.
John Langmack is a poet in the Asheville slam-poetry scene. We met through our sangha (Buddhist term for community) weekly meditations and dharma talks. On Thursday it was our sangha’s sharing night, and he and I both read poems that we just loved.
Hazy, balmy green
By John Langmack
The beginning of spring is heaven.
The verdant green of the trees is the blush of a new lover.
The warmth of a spring night is the universe’s love for you.
The light of the firefly is salvation in the darkness.
The bloom of the azalea is reconnection with your long, lost best friend.
The cooling breeze carries nirvana and forgiveness of sins.
A twilight walk amongst the oaks leaks to Valhalla.
The beginning of spring is heaven because I have designated it as so.
Because I have felt the balmy, green knights and seen their magic.
I have seen the explosion of green and felt the same exuberance.
I ran through the magnanimous breeze and felt its kindness.
Spring is heaven because it awakens the love in my heart.
Like a switch being flipped.
Aren’t all the magic things that way?
They awaken the innate love in your heart
And bring you closer to your true, beautiful self.
Brimming with love and seeing a world full of magic.
Find more of his poetry and takeaways from Buddhist teachings here, on his Instagram.
I’d also like to share Elizabeth Welliver Hengen’s poem, whose words always make me smile or edge toward tears. She’s a fellow substack writer, so follow the link below to see her original post with this poem, as well as poke through her other poetry.
hello joy
By Elizabeth Welliver Hengen
Today I planted myself in roots of joy
First a breeze over sand making waves
Then a sunflower garden
Then a glow of light expanding from my brain to my chest ribs belly hips legs feet
Time, presence, attention
Permission
Joy is a living thing in the world
Blob of light and spaciousness
We shared knowing glances, a hug
It is not made to be a crumb
Tap into the body
Invite joy to fill the brim
Inviting joy
I welcome you
I cherish you
I invite you in
Experience the fullness of life
Up to the brain stem
Joy for nothing; neither created nor dependent
Invite joy, incite joy, a way to begin
Joy is interdependent
Joy is present moment awareness
Flashlight mind; curious
Here and will return again
And, of course, I’ll add in some of the ever-beautiful, chronically inspiring Mary Oliver. Elizabeth gives this poem a literary hat-tip in hello joy, and it bears reading once, twice, or every single morning.
Don't Hesitate
by Mary Oliver
If you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy,
don’t hesitate. Give in to it. There are plenty
of lives and whole towns destroyed or about
to be. We are not wise, and not very often
kind. And much can never be redeemed.
Still, life has some possibility left. Perhaps this
is its way of fighting back, that sometimes
something happens better than all the riches
or power in the world. It could be anything,
but very likely you notice it in the instant
when love begins. Anyway, that’s often the
case. Anyway, whatever it is, don’t be afraid
of its plenty. Joy is not made to be a crumb.
Lastly, I’d like to mention that I’m opening up a paid subscription option for Internal Alchemy. As of yet, it will just be a voluntary $3.00 you can offer every month to help me keep this whole writing thing going. With your little bit of assistance, I’ll be able to continue to prioritize this exploration and alchemical process of growth, reflection, and exploration through words. Regardless, thank you for your support, paid or otherwise. Hearing your feedback about my writing means the world to me, always.
Vanessa, I read your post on a plane during my much belated honeymoon, and I felt like the whole sky lit up. Thank you for featuring this poem in conversation with my favorite writers (including you!) I feel so humbled and touched xoxoxo