There is so much catching up to do.
I’m envious of those who grew up with the seasons,
And get their rhythms.
I am still novice and learning.
I only speak the language of the tropics;
The constant, always blooming, lushness.
The only pendulum, 
wet season to dry and back again.
I’m caught off guard with Spring and each new unfolding. 
I’m delighted with each new dogwood tree and azalea bush. 
It’s beauty and “aliveness”
And the rapidity with which it unfurls when the time is right.
I feel like a visitor in a new land.
An observer.
But I’m also part of it, even if an interloper,
Sweeping pollen off the porch,
And watering my purple pansies. 
Winter coats have been put away,
And even rain is temperate and benign.
I found myself in a new church this Easter morning,
The tears flowing with gratitude
At the authentic, creative word,
Spoken. Sung. 
7 Riffs on the Resurrection.
Shared by 7 different hearts.
Men, Women, Black, White, Gay, Straight, Old, Young.
Each engaging and true. 
Each an invitation to remember the empty tomb,
An invitation to connect His resurrection with love in the here and now,
Even in a violent world, where pain and injustice abounds.
I left a little early.
I was so filled up, I couldn’t hold another phrase of kindness, or authenticity, or truth.
It was like life was bursting at the seams,
In all it’s forms.

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