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
– Mary Oliver
What Do We Know
(thank you, whiskey river, for the beauty and the hope of these words, spoken at this time of my need to hear just them)