Post by Vagabond on Mar 3, 2014 17:13:14 GMT
Spring is a time for hope, for believing things are going to get better, for doing things without a good reason. It`s a time for feeling sad and glad at the same time, and not knowing why, for longing for something and not knowing exactly what.
If you are a child, spring is a time for flying kites, for chasing dogs and floating paper boats down swollen rivers, and dreaming of sailing with them to wherever it is that rivers go. When you are older it is a time for climbing hills and wondering about the future and feeling a strange longing. Young people make plans in the spring, and old people remember, it is only the mean of heart who don`t feel some twinge of love or cradle some small, warm dream. Love and growth, change and hurt are rituals of spring.
There is a hillside I know, beyond a burn that meanders down to join a river in the valley that glows in the spring with violets and primroses. I have gone there many springs to feel the earth awakening from its sleep, to stand again in awe of the recurring miracle of life triumphing over death. Soon now I shall go again.
I need to re-establish contact with the course of life. I am searching, I know, as all of us search, for comfort and reassurance. We need it, as we need the faith that spring offers and justifies, for we know more winters of the soul than of the seasons. The chill that comes of living and knowing and loving and loosing cuts more deeply than the cold of winter, and we need nature`s reminders lest disillusionment bind us to the bleakness of the moment and blind us to the lesson of returning spring.
There are, I sense, too fewer springs left to me for looking at things in bloom. So soon, once more I shall walk along my hillside, sit beside my burn, taking comfort and hope from the greening beneath the dead leaves of winter, trusting that in the great scheme of things that sets our planet in its course and brings the spring in its time, that I shall have a role and a place. That I too am, and shall be, a part of that pattern.
If you are a child, spring is a time for flying kites, for chasing dogs and floating paper boats down swollen rivers, and dreaming of sailing with them to wherever it is that rivers go. When you are older it is a time for climbing hills and wondering about the future and feeling a strange longing. Young people make plans in the spring, and old people remember, it is only the mean of heart who don`t feel some twinge of love or cradle some small, warm dream. Love and growth, change and hurt are rituals of spring.
There is a hillside I know, beyond a burn that meanders down to join a river in the valley that glows in the spring with violets and primroses. I have gone there many springs to feel the earth awakening from its sleep, to stand again in awe of the recurring miracle of life triumphing over death. Soon now I shall go again.
I need to re-establish contact with the course of life. I am searching, I know, as all of us search, for comfort and reassurance. We need it, as we need the faith that spring offers and justifies, for we know more winters of the soul than of the seasons. The chill that comes of living and knowing and loving and loosing cuts more deeply than the cold of winter, and we need nature`s reminders lest disillusionment bind us to the bleakness of the moment and blind us to the lesson of returning spring.
There are, I sense, too fewer springs left to me for looking at things in bloom. So soon, once more I shall walk along my hillside, sit beside my burn, taking comfort and hope from the greening beneath the dead leaves of winter, trusting that in the great scheme of things that sets our planet in its course and brings the spring in its time, that I shall have a role and a place. That I too am, and shall be, a part of that pattern.