On May Day, my mind goes first to the woods.

The other morning, traveling the back roads, I rounded a bend and saw a hillside of trees rising like a long, steady breath. Spring had softened everything—branches wearing that first tender green, shadows moving like quiet thoughts. And there on the woodland floor, as if the earth had laid out lanterns for anyone paying attention, were hundreds of trillium. Their white blossoms lifted themselves on slender stems, each one holding a small circle of May light as though it were something holy.

The sight opened a door to memory.

When I was a child, May Day was a day we met the world with more enthusiasm than good sense. My mother did her best to fasten our sweaters, though we kept slipping away from her hands, already halfway into the day. She would tug rubber boots over our feet while we wriggled in every direction, as if she could wrap a little restraint around all that springtime energy. Then we would tumble into Grandpa’s car—elbows, knees, laughter—and off we went down the road toward the woods.

When we finally arrived, the car doors flew open and we scattered, cousins running ahead with the single-minded excitement of young hounds on a trail.

The adults came behind us at a gentler pace, half-looking for flowers, half-watching the way we disappeared into the bright disorder of early spring. My sister had a gift for gathering beauty. She would kneel beside a patch of white trillium and gather a bouquet so effortlessly it seemed the flowers had been waiting for her. And Grandpa—patient, unhurried—returned with a few choice treasures: adder’s tongue, Dutchman’s britches, lady’s slippers. He walked the woods like someone who believed that rare things should be met with reverence.

I never found many flowers. My attention was drawn elsewhere—to the moss that cushioned the ground, to the ledges of fallen logs, to the quiet arrangements of bark and stone. The forest had a thousand small invitations, and I accepted the ones that asked only to be noticed. What I brought home was not a bouquet but a way of paying attention that has stayed with me ever since.

The ride home was always quieter.

Our fingers were cold and pink from the damp air, our boots heavy with mud. The car held a kind of hush, as though the woods had spoken something we were still trying to understand. There was the faint scent of wild leeks on our breath and the unspoken sense that we had stepped into a mystery larger than ourselves. By the time we reached home, our hearts felt newly rinsed—ready, somehow, for resurrection.

This is still what May Day means to me. Not simply a day of flowers, but a reminder that the world is forever opening itself, even in seasons when we are tired or discouraged. Beneath all that troubles us—beneath the worry, the conflict, the fraying edges of our common life—something faithful is rising. There are blossoms on the hillside. Moss at the foot of the trees. Beauty leaning toward us with no agenda but to be seen.

So may we pause long enough to honor May Day. May we let the beauty around us steady our breath .May hope take root in us again as we witness the earth awakening. And may we remember that even here, in this place, grace has not gone missing. It is flowering in the woods.