I was reminded this morning that today is the vernal equinox – the first day of spring. It’s been so gray and rainy that it’s difficult to imagine that in a few weeks, Broadway will be painted pale magnolia pink; Park Avenue will be afire with tulips and daffodils. Something in me yearns for color and freshness – for the crisp edges of a crocus and the heady fragrance of a hyacinth.
Last week, in a hopeful gesture, I started planting seeds – climbing morning glories, night-blooming jasmine. Since then, I’ve been poking and prodding, watching with delight as their little green heads push up through the soil. Such determination. Such a lust for life. At this time of year, something in me yearns for something to nurture.
I was born just before spring. My mother had lost her sister exactly a year before my birth, and by the time I arrived, the traditional Greek year of mourning was coming to a close. Since birth and death presented themselves in such a tidy little bundle, it seemed obvious to my parents that I needed a name that could stand up to all the heavy symbolism. They named me Persephone - the Greek goddess of spring and the queen of the underworld. It was a big name for a wee baby. A few obnoxious detractors called it pretentious, but my parents ignored the poor ignorant slobs. The name stuck, and I managed to survive a New York City public school education without getting beaten up.
My mom has always been superstitious about my name. Pomegranates – the fruit that condemned Persephone to six months in gloomy Dis every year – were forbidden. When I left for Cairo at 22, I tried my first pomegranate and secretly worried that I would get sucked into the earth by Hades. In some ways, I think I did. I spent several dark years struggling with the basic questions everyone else seemed to have figured out – What drives me? What do I love? Why can’t I accept what I love and try to make a living out of it? Why do I lose sight of myself in the pursuit of love? Why don’t I know myself better? I felt submerged, paralyzed, at odds with myself – and my relationships. It was a hard, hopeless time.
This spring, I feel like Persephone emerging from the depths of the underworld, watching the earth spring to life. I feel hope for momentum and change. If we really do become our names, I hope I can be selective about becoming mine (yes to springtime, no to living in hell for half the year with a gloomy bore). At any rate, I’m looking forward to a few months of pointing my face toward the light.
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Polaroids by Maditi Photography. Visit her scrumdiddliumptious photoblog, website, and Flickr page.