It's a slow, messy spring. It's been teasing us with hints of warm weather and sunshine (such a very little bit of sunshine) blown away in wind and rain and chilly air. Every few days I catch a new flower in bloom or tree awakening. One by one new birds add their voices to the morning chorus.
This is the year reborn in the real way: messy and ugly as childbirth, and just as full of hope and delight. Painfully (and painstakingly) slow - the carefulness of a scattering of reddish buds emerging on a bare wet tree. And yet the tactile beauty of these words, and the loveliness that exists already. This is what I looked for so long. Can it really be true?
In my world God has always meant rules and love has been a sham, something people use to get you to do what they want. Words like love, salvation, goodness have the meanings sucked out of them by people who don't believe the real thing could possibly exist. Anything worth having is turned into an abstraction.
Where is love? How do I find it? Sometimes I catch a glimpse of it, but I'm too scared to hope. Because I know how the story ends: the way it always has.