Since I am 52 years old, I suppose this is my 53rd Spring season. My 53rd Easter season.
I have seen many Winters, indeed. This past Winter was, perhaps, the most beautiful one that I can remember. It was a long and contemplative time, full of unexpected surprises of beauty. No doubt taking pictures helped me to pay more attention, but it was more than that.
I spent a lot of time looking at things.
Now Spring is here with its brief, brilliant displays and waves of color. Our Valley has become a garden. And in this natural season of changes and growth in the temperate region of the north, Easter comes, proclaiming the victory of Love, the coming forth of the One who remains forever among us.
I am still determined to take pictures, and more importantly, to continue to look at all these things.
Whether it be blossom,
or budding twig,
or dark drippy patch of moss on rain soaked stone,
when we look at things,
even for a moment,
we are thrown into wonder,
by the widening space of longing
that only grows deeper as the seasons pass.
Life runs everywhere
like flood waters washing over our thirst
and filling us
and bursting holes in our hearts so that we die.
But we are also reminded
that time's tomb cannot hold us.
For we have heard the promise.
It is the promise
that the wonder in the brief glory
of feathery flower petals
is worth seeing again and again,
even when we are old,
when the heart holes of longing are aching
and frail and beautiful,
burning open with soft fire as everything speaks,
in its singular simple way,
of the promise long held, and drawing near.