I turn my eyes to the blooms out my window, recalling the words of a poet I caught on NPR: “The earth forgives the previous year every year.”
Spring does indeed feel like forgiveness – nature returning, first sweetly, oh-so quiet, with the first push of crocus through hardened soil. And then exuberantly as the Crabtree in my window, dressed in a transcendent finery of color.
Spring – the earth’s forgiveness of our winter’s sleep, metaphor of forgetfulness, or over-indulgence, perhaps. Forgiveness of our constant use, the worn tracks of living all over her. Forgiveness even of plunder, our relentless dependence for our every need.
And still, nature comes back each year as spring.
This life returning sparks the feeling of renewal inside me, renewal and possibility that bear the fruit of forgiveness, of myself and others. Seeing the spring, breathing its perfumes deep into my lungs, being lulled to rest by the rhythm of its rains upon my roof, feeling its warming sun upon my cheek, all stir a profound and quiet gratitude.
Gratitude for a bounty and munificence so infinite it overwhelms my mind, and yet, somehow comprehensible in the quiet depths of my heart.