Humble Crocus

There's something springy about February.

Technically, it's cold and wintry... But still. In February, a couple spring-cleaning frenzies make their appearance and that seems as good a predictor of spring as PMS before a period.

Crocus is a daring bulb. It takes the frost in stride. It's often purple or buttercup yellow.

Purple speaks of royalty. Crocus purple makes me think of a king's robe, and somehow that spells dignified.

Gold catches itself singing Joy To The World in the backyard and is surprised.

Crocus is bold.

But it's so tiny.

It's scarcely taller than the dead winter grass.

Let's digress.

I worked as a content creator once for a health app. I made friends with some colleagues who lived about a province away, and had never met in person. See, you can't tell someone's height from seeing their bust on a 3X6 inch square on your laptop screen.

Anywho we played a game once, trying to guess eachother's height.

My friends guessed I was five foot seven and five foot nine.

I'm five foot two.

So I get Crocus, you know?

The thing about being small is you still want to be taken seriously like a tall person. Tall people can see my scalp, and that's a brotherly view on a good day, and a power differential on another.

Also, what about childrens' heads makes me want to pat them in the first place? I'm the adult I used to hate now. Rufflin' up my nieces' hair...

I look up to tall people, unless I stand far enough from them that our eyes meet at an angle more obtuse.

For the record, I've very much come to terms with my height over the years. It feels nice to snuggle my feet under me on an airplane seat. It's fun for me to squat and fit in bathtubs and find discounted shoes.

I wonder what Crocus likes about being tiny.

We are gentler with little things. We are called to look closer at Crocus. We get nearer to it.

I kneel for my nieces every time I greet them. I appreciated when adults did me that honour.

There's a respect in acknowledging those who are littler, or those who know less. The same is true for the wheelchair-bound, or the stooped senior. And it has nothing to do with being less-than.

In yoga practice, we finish our sessions with a spoken word, Namaste. Namaste means the light in me bows to the light in you. Respect is the recognition that the teacher is the student and the student is the teacher.

Children teach me and vice versa.

So next time you see Crocus poking out its scooping petals in the sunshine, take a knee. Perhaps you too will find its royalty this spring.

Thanks for being here.

Iz <3