Ah, but I took a walk in our woods this afternoon, and among the muddy places and the tangles of winter blow-down, I spotted this undeniable clarion of the season.
The appearance of violets was always a happy moment for my mother. She would go into raptures for the purple woodland violets or the occasional white ones. And though I love the scent of the purple violet, it is that flash of yellow in the dark woods that signals the turn of the season for me.
Seems I can’t stop blogging today, though I have little to say other than, “Here is another day!” That ought to be reason enough to sing out, I suppose. Among Quakers, Sunday is called First-Day. Holy Week begins today though for Quakers, who attempt to integrate worship and life and who believe Godself can be found in the middle of everyday life as much as in a meeting for worship, it is not the central event it is for most Christian groups. Thank you to my friend Betty (the Sheep Woman) for the word Godself.
But if today was a first day, it was also a last day. The reason for my walk into the wood was the yearling ewe I carried in a wheelbarrow to the charnel ground under the trees. Coming up to this spring day she lay down and gave up her last breath. It was a day of mixed signals. Frost and snow early, sun after a while. The farm gives me focus sometimes.
As we used to say back in the ’60s, “Today is the first day of the rest of your life.”