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There was once a perennial beauty who lived at the edge of a meadow.
Every spring, she rose in a burst of color—petals wide open, stems stretched toward the sun, bees swarming her like she was the center of the world. People passing by would be slowed to halting by her presence. Some whispered unexpected prayers near her. Some clipped tiny offerings from her branches. Children would laugh and point, “Look! She’s back again!”

But not in winter.

When the cold winds came, she released her flowers, then her leaves, then her strength. She surrendered everything to the soil, letting herself disappear beneath the surface.
She did this every year—an ancient rhythm she gave herself over to without question again and again.

But one winter seemed especially long.
Snow covered the meadow for weeks upon weeks.
The ground seemed harder than before.
The nights felt endless.

Deep beneath the frozen earth, the perennial wondered if she had misjudged the season.
“What if I am meant to rise now?” she thought, feeling the faint warmth of a too warm February sun above her. “What if I’ve rested too long? What if I’m late? What if I miss my time to bloom?”

A still small voice rose from the soil.
It was the Earth herself.

“Beloved,” she whispered, “your strength is not in how quickly you rise, but in how deeply you root. You bloom so  beautifully because you rest so faithfully. Do not rush what I am preparing in you. The sun that warms you too early will disapear and  freeze you too soon. Trust the dark. Trust the slow. Trust this slow and hidden work.”

She listened.
She breathed.
She stayed.

And though no one could see her, she was growing—cell by little cell, root by steady root—gathering what she needed for the season to come.

When spring finally arrived in its true fullness, the perennial broke through the soil with a brilliance she had never known. Her colors were deeper, her petals fuller, her fragrance intoxicating.

Those who passed by said, “We’ve never seen her bloom like this before.”

But the perennial smiled inwardly, knowing the truth:

It was the winter that made this possible.
It was the unseen —the quiet, hidden, holy work beneath the frost—
that prepared her to rise.