The Springdom of Heaven

Snowdrops, sadness and ordinary miracles.

This Sunday, as a belated birthday treat to myself, we visited the snowdrops at Anglesey Abbey. With over 400 varieties it’s one of the largest collections in the country and, for the few brief weeks that they are flowering, the estate is flecked with delicate, white beauty. They line walkways, nestle near the banks of the river and carpet woodland. The whole experience is a thrill.

“Wow! Isn’t it beautiful?” I said to Phoebe when I noticed her admiring one particularly perfect flower, “And just think, if they flowered during another season we wouldn't see them at all. They'd be all covered up or they'd be so much smaller than the other flowers we probably wouldn’t pay them much attention.”

I've been thinking about that this week: about how the muddy mess of late winter doesn't stop spring from coming in its small, slow ways but actually wakes us up to pay attention; about how there might be wisdom in that for those of us who feel grieved by the pain of the world.

This week a directee told me that she feels as though the world is soaked in sadness. We sat with that image for a while, giving it space and time to expand. She pictured herself holding the crumpled, soggy mess of the world in her hands and felt the weight of its sadness. After a while the image began to shift and she noticed that she wasn’t alone and that each person had a container and was trying to scoop up the excess water. It was a comfort to know she wasn’t alone. Later we wondered together about what to do when all our cups and containers for sadness are full. We played with imagining the cups draining into the infinite largeness of the Divine who welcomes, holds and is not overwhelmed by that sadness. “Whatever helps you to find the plug and let your sadness drain, that’s your spiritual practice,” I suggested.¹

I’ve been pondering what that practice might be for me and I think part of the answer is tears. Letting the sadness drain into the safe embrace of the Holy One who holds all, for me, means making space for the grief and letting the tears flow. Not just alone but with others too. I long for spaces where we can lament together. Not to problem solve or strategise (although those can be important tasks too) but to grieve and let our sadness drain, together.

I realise it can be scary to do that. I recognise the worry that if we release the tide of unshed tears the ground beneath us will become so muddy we will get stuck or, worse, sink. But my experience of sitting with someone deeply in touch with the pain of the world tells me that the muddying is actually how we begin to find the true ground, even in the midst of the mess. If we let them, our tears will point us back to the heart of our longing for what we deeply know is good and needed. Kindness. Justice. Beauty. Generosity. Peace. And through our tears for what feels missing, our vision is being perfected to see those things growing even here in the muddy mess of the world. A tiny act of kindness, a moment of true connection, a generous decision, a word of peace. Like the snowdrops that rise out of the mud clean and radiant, these are the ordinary miracles that return us back to our hope, our courage and all the small tasks that our ours to do. It doesn't matter if these moments are few - that may even be exactly what helps us to notice them. What matters is that when we do have the pleasure of witnessing some small glimpse of the Springdom of Heaven, we draw near, soak in its goodness and say to each other “Wow! Isn’t it beautiful?”.

1. Story shared with permission.