When I was a boy, I used to walk to school everyday. My family lived in a neighborhood full of kids, but we lived down a lane where we were the only household with kids our own age, and so that part of my walk was almost always taken alone. Markwood Lane was almost exactly 1/10^th of a mile long. (Growing up with an engineer for a father, affords you access to all kinds of data such as this. It’s usefulness in the moment potentially suspect, but I am so grateful for having learned to care for precision and attention to detail. I love you Dad.)

That 1/10^th of a mile, by myself as a child, was never the same length every day. Feet and inches aside, that walk was measured by my state of mind and my feelings that day. It must have been 26.2 miles long on days I had to share bad news about a spelling test, and I am convinced, to this day, that it was only 10 feet long on the last day of school before summer.

There were times, though, when I never paid attention to that 1/10^th of a mile. None stand out quite like in the early Spring, when the crocuses would bloom.

I knew Spring had arrived when along my walk I would start to see the crocuses come up. Everyday I would barge through my front door and my Mother would sit patiently and excitedly for the “crocus report”.

She would take a moment, smile, and then ask me more. She’d ask me which were my favorites. Every day I would talk about the colors. Usually my favorites were the golden yellow and the deep purple. Once in a while, the striated purple and white would catch my eye. Sometime the deep royal orange saffron on the stamens against the bright white would be my favorites. All of these colors set off by the rich succulent verdancy of their new Spring stems and leaves.

The truth was, that for me, the walk was solely and wholly given over to exploring the tiny flowers; the immense variety and detail of color and shape. In my young mind there was no thought, no concern above and beyond the beauty each crocus held and the moments of joy and wonder I experienced each day seeing them. Sharing their subtle changes each day felt like a hero reporting on an adventure. I don’t know how long it took me to get down the lane those days, and frankly I didn’t care. I still don’t. The flowers were more important.

Now in my mind’s eye and my hearts remembering, that time with the crocuses was prayer. It was me singing with the Spring’s chorus. It was learning one of the many names of Spirit. When in conversation with the divine, there is no clock, no measure, no distance. What is important is never urgent.