Neither singing the beauties of this world, nor savaging God for perceived inequities to the self or the world should detract one's first answer to life's question. That is, to know God as God (Job 38:4) and not what we want Him to be. It is He who appoints a time for everything (Ecclesiastes 3). And the earth is His and all it contains (Psalm 24:1).
The early March sun still glows slumberous and golden in its winter deportment. Even in the afternoon, the splendid lavish light and blue canopy clear but not bewilder the eyes. Synchronies of bouquets are now on exhibit in prideful home gardens. Farther out in the country, the early blossoming almonds have thrown over the sun warmed orchard with veils of blush coral. Like confectionary, the fallen petals are sprinkling over the new sprung herbs and grass in merry mirth.
Fragrant as sweet water this past few days have been. It was good to be home and have snatched a precious respite from the strife and worries of the day.
"Oh, que j’aime la solitude
Que ses lieux sacrés à la nuit
Éloignés du monde et du bruit
Plaisent à mon inquiétude
Mon Dieu! que mes yeux sont contents
De voir ces bois qui se trouvèrent
A la nativité du temps
Et que tous les siècles révèrent
Être encore aussi beaux et vert"
-- Marc-Antoine Gérard de Saint-Amant
Michel, je te souhaite un très joyeux anniversaire pour tes 75 ans.
There are many a sharp and flashing tongue, edged with cruelty; yet it rarely carries the sound of wit or wisdom.
Whose excellent mind in the blogosphere, I wonder, can speak with singularity to the question:
What is the only comfort in life and in death?
The chill winter pall is being chased away by a warm steady rain. The lingering shower is scouring earth's mouldering urn and preparing it for the life to come. Soon, the sun warmed soil will receive a synchrony of bouquets.
Spring shall dawn on the night of the winter grave. Surely, the closing aria of Strauss' Die Frau ohne Schatten is waiting in the wing.
The bedraggled rose trees lined the redwood fence have clung on tenaciously for weeks in sub-freezing temperature. Dreaming the winter dreams of fête champêtres, the dormant buds yearned for the riches and adulations of the promised spring. At the foot of rose trees, a pride of White Lion daffodils have already unlocked the tyrannical gates of the winter keep; bursting forth in liberty, outstretching their jade-green fingers toward the sky.
Winter's breath, it seems, is about to take flight.
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