Isn't there a fairytale about a slumbering giant? The details are fuzzy, but I seem to remember a story in which people didn't realize they had stumbled upon (quite literally) a giant until he awoke. That once still hill was not at all what it had seemed, rather something full of life and bigger than they. Spring is like that giant. I am writing from behind the view of a backyard teeming with green leaves and slick blades of grass, sprouts of thyme, blossoming raspberry bushes, and bright orange marigolds. Just months ago, this yard was still a slumbering giant. A quiet mass of subdued whites and smoky grays. During that lull of hush and snow, we crept quietly - blanketed - unaware of the giant just below the surface. Now roused, the snowy sleep shaken from the corner of his eyes, we realize - even more this year - the magnitude of spring: heralded by a call to life - in our family, a very specific newborn life. Saturday, I was given a new nephew (I suppose I will share him with the rest of this excited family - if I must).
Today, he is new. But, parenthood (like spring) carries its own distinct muscle memory. Today, his cry will be a signal of the unfamiliar: calls for requests brand new. But soon, my sister will find herself gazing into the face of her four-month-old son: long lashes and firecracker eyes a well-studied masterpiece. He will laugh at her and with her. As he shares his opinion in smiles and encouraged coos, his parents will swear that somehow, someway he has always been: this body of untapped hope and potential - full of life and bigger than they. A quietly slumbering giant. Welcome to the world, Greyson.
*The picture above is not of Greyson (since I didn't ask permission) but of our own four-month-old slumbering giant.