Spring has arrived in the Pacific Northwest. The blanket of snow has lifted, Mother Nature is busy watering every day, buckets even, and the birds' excited songs can be heard from the moment dawn cracks open.
Spring reminds us that even during the darkest and most dismal time, there is light and life at the end of the darkness. All that was once seemingly gone returns with renewed vigor.
May you sing your song as the birds do, without hesitation;
May you proudly wear your perfection as the rose does: blooms, thorns and all,
May you always look for the light, as the daffodils do that push up through the soil to find the sun.
May you abandon fear and reach for the sky as the young seedling does,
May you know you are already good enough and are unconditionally loved, as all things in nature know by virtue of the fact that we have been given life,
May you feel your connection to all living things through our common pulse that beats in you, me and even the fruit fly.
You are a miracle.
This is a summer poem but couldn't resist sharing, after all, what's wrong with coloring outside the lines every now and then?
The Summer Day by Mary Oliver
Who made the world?
Who made the swan and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean -
The one who has flung herself out of the grass, the one who is eating sugar out of my hand.
Who is moving her jaws back and forth
instead of up and down
Who is gazing around with her enormous
and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down into the grass, how to
kneel down in the grass, how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll
through the fields, which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
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