Why It Was Wonderful! Earth, And The Promise of Renewal

“Why it was wonderful! Why, all
At once there were leaves,
Leaves at the end of a dry
Stick, small, alive
Leaves out of wood. It was
Wonderful.”
—Archibald MacLeish

It always catches me off guard—how suddenly it happens. One day the trees are bare, and the next… leaves! Alive! At the end of sticks that looked long dead. From wood, from the bone of branches, from stillness and waiting and cold, something green arrives. Something alive. And it is, as Archibald MacLeish says, wonderful.

That is Spring. That is the moment we’re standing in now. That is the miracle offered to us every year, without fail. Whether or not we are paying attention. Whether or not we believe. Whether or not we deserve it.

This is a holy moment—not holy in the sense of belonging only to the religious or the devout, but holy in its truest, oldest meaning. From the Old English hālig: that which is whole. Complete. Unbroken. That which contains everything needed to be itself.

This holiness lives in the Earth. In Her rhythms, Her reliability, Her return. And I know Her—this Earth, this Presence, this Mystery—as Goddess.

She, who is always becoming. She, who gives without asking. Who holds without hesitation. Who dies and rises again—not once, not only—but forever. The Goddess whose stories stretch through time and myth, whose names shift with every culture, but whose essence never wavers. She is the Earth—and the Earth is faithful.

“You can’t imagine. They came
By the wood path
And the earth loosened, the
Earth
Relaxed, there were
Flowers
Out of the earth! Think of it!”

The Earth loosened. The Earth relaxed. Flowers—out of the earth! Think of it.

We don’t earn this miracle. We don’t have to strive for it. The soil doesn’t require us to pray hard enough. The trees don’t hold grudges over last year’s storms. The daffodils don’t ask if we’ve repented or perfected ourselves. The Earth simply returns. She gives back. She opens again. She always does.

This is the great covenant of Spring. This is resurrection—not as dogma, but as nature. Not as history, but as now. Not as something we look back on, but something we are invited into.

Easter teaches that life conquers death. Passover teaches that liberation follows hardship. Spring shows us both. It reminds us that what looks lost may not be gone. That what looks dead may be resting. That from dust, from clay, from the crushed and frozen places, something soft will bloom again.

And it’s not conditional. It’s not transaction. The Earth doesn’t bargain. She doesn’t say, “If you believe hard enough, I’ll thaw the ground.” She doesn’t say, “Only if you’re worthy, I’ll return the leaves.” No. The Earth says: I will come back. I will rise. I will flower again. I always do.

That, to me, is the face of Goddess. Not a faraway deity keeping score, but an intimate Presence always unfolding right here. In the green tips of branches. In the dark soil under our feet. In the breeze, the moonlight, the morning frost, and the soft rains that follow.

The Goddess is not confined to any one tradition. She lives in the mystery behind every name we give to God, behind every tradition that celebrates life, renewal, and return. Pagan. Christian. Jew. Muslim. Buddhist. Seeker. Skeptic. She rises through them all. Because She belongs to none and to all.

She is grace in the green. Mercy in the thaw. Hope in the flower squeezed from clay.

“And oak trees
Oozing new green at the tips of
Them and flowers
Squeezed out of clay, soft
Flowers, limp
Stalks flowering. Well, it was like
A dream.”

Yes—a dream. But a true one. A dream we live in every Spring. The Earth dreams herself back to life, and in doing so, invites us to do the same.

So what does that mean for us?

It means that we, too, are allowed to begin again. That we are invited to soften. To loosen. To let go of winter’s grip—not only on the trees, but on our hearts. To make space in our own clay for something new to root.

It means we can trust this: the Earth never lies. She does not promise what She cannot fulfill. And Her greatest promise is return.

When the world breaks, She rebuilds. When fire scorches, She regrows. When floodwaters come, She dries in time. When the forest falls silent, it is only waiting for birdsong. She is always returning.

And so must we.

We stand now on the edge of that return. At the mouth of the tomb. On the far side of the sea. We stand barefoot in the loosening mud of Spring and hear the quiet voice of the Earth say: Come with me. Grow again. Try again. Live again.

What have you left buried that longs to rise? What dream froze over that might thaw now? What part of you thought it was too late?

Because it isn’t.

“It happened so quickly, all of a
Sudden
It happened.”

It is happening. Right now. The Earth is renewing Herself. And She’s not asking for anything in return—only that you notice. Only that you receive it. Only that you believe—just a little—that your life, too, can be made new.

This is the gift. This is the promise. This is the great truth at the center of it all: She always returns.

And it is wonderful.