I’ve heard many times that every 7 years, our body is completely regenerated. A completely new me every 7 years – every single cell a new one.
I’m a firm believer that facts should never get in the way of a good story. Whether this “7-year renewal†notion is actually 100% factual or just generally true doesn’t matter – it’s a fun notion that gets ‘ya to thinkin’. (I understand from those who choose to watch political advertising these days that I’m probably not the only one who believes facts shouldn’t cloud a good story…)
Springtime has exploded here on the high prairie up against the Rocky Mountains. The tulips were wonderful, (at least the ones the deer didn’t eat), and the apple and pear trees were painted with blossoms more vibrant than usual. The wild plums along the cycling paths filled the air with a deep sweet scent, and the lilacs burst into fragrant blooms like I’ve never seen here on the high prairie before. When I walk out my back door, I’m drenched in the smell of the Carol Mackey Daphne that lines the walk in my back yard.
A fascination with and love of this annual cycle seems to come from deep inside most of us. We love to see this physical evidence of renewed hope and new life spring out of the ground at us, and bathe us in its sweet smell. The dark compost of the previous season strengthens the roots beneath the soil, fueling a more powerful and complete rebirth above the soil.
People are like that too. We’ve all got stuff composting beneath the surface. Bits and pieces of ourselves that we’re a little less than proud of. Actions or reactions we wish we could get another shot at. It’s inevitable that if we act, react, or speak – if we move through life in any way – that we’ll have a few of those actions, words, or motions that we regret.
Welcome to human beingness.
It’s that stuff composting beneath the surface of our life that fuels the rebirth and renewal we hope for and reach for as we move along the path. If a person lived a perfect life, there’d be no need for the renewal, for the hope of rebirth. It’s the imperfections in our life that put the paintbrush in our hand, urging us to evolve into the better person we know we are.
This year, as I rejoice in the abundance of renewal that spring is laying in our lap here on the high prairie, I’ll also rejoice in the one seventh of me that’s brand new this year. I’ve probably got more than my share of compost, so I can only hope that translates to an even better one seventh of a new me…
