Slow blooms and tiny joys

The news, especially of the escalating war in the Middle East, affecting and pulling in the rest of the world, however hard we resist, continues to be grim, offering little reason for hope. Here in the UK, too, we have had this and other fears and concerns; most recently, an outbreak of meningitis among students in Kent, resulting in hospitalisations, and, sadly, two deaths. But nature, the sun and the changing seasons seem unaware of all this. Everywhere, in this part of the northern hemisphere, there is a springtime greening and a blooming and blossoming, made lovelier by waves of warm sunshine, while ladybirds begin to proliferate, and fat bees buzz lazily in search of the first nectar of 2026. 

Back in January I shared that I had been surprised and delighted by some tiny joys: tiny green shoots, spring's early heralds, pushing their way through cracks and bare patches of soil in the garden of my new home. And as I wrote at the time, in a world and a new year already filled with darkness and death, and seismic events, I find joy in each one of these tiny joys... I have to find joy...

For a long time, these shoots seemed to be nothing more than leaves, growing larger and stronger, expanding and stretching, but not promising to become anything floral. Until one day... oh joy! when I looked closely into some plants' depths, I could see the top of some tightly furled petals, promising that they would indeed become something floral. And then, for what felt like an infinity, and regardless of my coaxing and encouragement, they remained tiny, green and furled, only emerging from their leafy protection slowly and gradually; even then, remaining poised and on the verge of opening for what felt like another infinity. And then, finally, about a week ago, the first petals uncurled, and - hello! - the first violet-blue bells began to emerge and form themselves into flowers. At last! 

And yes, every time I walk past them, and my asters and slowly-blooming tulips, I pause and savour, allowing a surge of appreciation and simple, sudden joy to lift my heart beyond whatever in the news would otherwise break it. 

A few weeks ago I bookmarked a line from Pope Leo's Angelus address on the 25th January: 

Like the first disciples, we are called to embrace the Lord’s invitation with joy, knowing that every time and every place in our lives is permeated by his presence and his love. 

In the face of destruction, fear and instability, we need to hold on to this certainty of God, of his presence and infinite, ubiquitous love, and the joy that only Jesus can bring... and to the certainty of a God of steadfast fidelity who always keeps his promises... even when they flower achingly slowly.