It's February here in Lewis, and despite the re-appearing sun, the tree branches have sealed their leaves and flowers in tight. Unlike the daffodil, known for its 'courage' to risk a second snow, or an icy death if it emerges too soon, a tree's roots run deep. It knows it must trust, be certain of the Spring before it can chance its delicate flowers, its raw gifts with the world. And so, for now, all it displays is a hard, outer shell. Its budding flowers and soft leaves remain reserved inside until it can trust they can be shared and grow, flourish without harm or damage from wintery weather.
It is the same for the hens on the croft that do not lay eggs during the month of January, for their bodies instinctively know that their young cannot survive in a hostile environment. Even the sheep do not give birth until late in March here, the lambs developing a thick coat quickly.
As humans, we need to take heed of Winter's lessons too: the most delicate, precious parts of yourself are not for everyone; they should only be shared with those few you trust. Healthy growth begins in a warm and welcoming environment, in safety. Yes, we need a resilient bark to survive a greedy world, but the parts of us that are sacred, our hopes, our happiness, our intimate dreams, should be protected until we know the weather will nurture and care for them. This is the Hebridean reserve. These small leaves of ourselves are the gifts we pass on. Like the Willow here on the croft: wait to trust. Wait for the Sun before sharing. Protect the colourful parts you most believe in as a human being; this way, when you do open yourself to a world you trust, you are sure to thrive.
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