Turn the pages

Look, it’s spring. And last year’s loose dust has turned into this soft willingness. The wind-flowers have come up trembling, slowly the brackens are up-lifting their curvaceous and pale bodies. The thrushes have come home, none less than filled with mystery, sorrow, happiness, music, ambition.

And I am walking out into all of this with nowhere to go and no task undertaken but to turn the pages of this beautiful world over and over, in the world of my mind.

* * *
Therefore, dark past,
I’m about to do it.
I’m about to forgive you

for everything.

Mary Oliver, A Settlement

Seasons

The first of May marks the start of Summer in the old Celtic way of dividing the seasons

The heart’s seasons seldom coincide with the calendar. Who among us has not been made desolate beyond all words upon some golden day when the little creatures of the air and meadow were life incarnate, from sheer joy of living? Who among us has not come home, singing, when the streets were almost impassable with snow, or met a friend with a happy, smiling face, in the midst of a pouring rain?

The soul, too, has its own hours of Winter and Spring.

Myrtle Reed 1874 – 1911, American author, poet, journalist, and philanthropist.

Free of care

It is blossom season in Japan and in gardens here. They are often used as a metaphor for human existence – beautiful but short lived – a reminder that life needs to be celebrated yet always contains an element of impermanence.

You ask me why I dwell in these green mountains;
I smile and am silent, for my heart is free of care.
As the peach-blossom flows down the stream and goes into the unknown,
I live in a world apart that is not of men.

Li Po, 701-762, Green Mountain