Spring

Ive been noticing the growth of the Apricots this Spring. They grow so quickly. A week or two ago, they were just tiny buds, barely visible in the armpits of spindly branches. This morning, as I took a moment in my day to meditate on the incredible mystery of growth and life, I was quite amazed by their size. I find them to be quite amazing. Such an ordinary, forgotten thing.

I also noticed, while playing my guitar in the back yard the other day, a pair of Willy Wagtails flitting around the apex of the roof and by the fence. I havent seen a pair together before.

Spring.

I dont, however, find that the exuberance of life present in this season to be something that sets my spirit soaring like it does for others. There is a breathlessness that takes me in the mystery of growth, and seasons and warm days, and something like love, or intimacy, but it is never completely free. It must find again the melancholy earth. It can not soar on warm breezes and long bright days only. The twinge of the thorn still stings, (blood must flow from the vein) even in brighter months when you might like to believe that everything in life is good.