New Life

It was a sunny Sunday afternoon, and the mercury had finally inched above 50 degrees. We were driving along the highway, and Katie had a question.

“Daddy,” she asked, “is this your first life?”

“Umm,” I stammered, attempting to focus on the road while also trying to answer the deepest question a child of mine has ever asked me. “As far as I know, yes. What has you thinking about this, Katie?”

I wondered if a whiff of the spring-like air had Katie thinking about reincarnation. In fact, she said she’d been thinking about her great-grandfather, who passed away a few years ago. She was wondering if his spirit was still in heaven or if, instead, it had settled inside a dog. My grandfather had loved the golden retriever we’d had for many years, and the two often seemed to be connected by forces much stronger than a leash.

Katie’s memories of the people and animals no longer with her speak volumes about her sensitivity, as well as to her understanding of the autumns in our lives. Her hope for rebirth speaks to our universal connection with this season of green that awaits us, awakening just around the corner.

In Florida and Arizona, they’ve been thinking spring for weeks already. The ballplayers call it “Spring Training,” and they’re already playing games against each other. There are young players hustling to impress their managers, older players trying to make one last comeback, and unfortunate players whose early-season injuries have them wondering just how fruitful their springs will actually be.

Fans travel from around the block and around the globe to watch these baseball players up close in Spring Training. They watch the players stretch, long-toss, practice grounders and take batting practice. Players sign autographs, and rest easy with the knowledge that every team, now and for the rest of the month, is tied for first place.

New beginnings. A fresh start. In so many ways, the seasons of life are all about this. We seek the patience to endure the harsh winters of life, the fortitude to gather up our strength for the long walk home, and the present-mindedness to savor the moments of grace that bloom before us.

A cardinal sits on a barren tree, a harbinger of things to come. A final patch of snow melts into the grass, now wet with moisture and promise. A dog dashes around the yard, sniffing all the fresh smells this sleepy ground holds. A veteran pitcher tosses two innings in Tampa to work on his off-speed stuff. An outfielder shags fly balls and does some jogging in the outfield.

I think it’s my first life, Katie. But the winter is long, and your question is fitting. As for your great-grandpa, I think he’s in all of us, to an extent. Kind of like a spring breeze.