Today is the first day of spring. I’m sitting at my desk, looking out the window at how this delightful turn of the season is awakening life. Squirrels are running and tumbling with joy. Birds are peeping—wrens, finches, robins. The honeysuckle has sprouted leaves. The Japanese maple has begun sending out its frilly, mahogany leaves. The white and purple hyacinths and the small fragrant daphne odora scent the air. It’s heady and exciting.
I see pictures of lambs and kittens and puppies. Grandfathers are pushing their grandchild in a stroller to the nearby park to play. Neighborhood cats are running around our back yard, timorously coming closer for a little kitty treat.
This is the time for birth and renewal. I always find a bit of heartache with the coming of spring. As all new life comes forth in pain, as new mothers animal and human nurture their young, I think of birthmothers who have, through love, given up their newborn for someone else to raise. Trust, hope and faith collide in making that decision, but overall is the power of love and the courage to do what’s best for your new life. That, to me, is the heartache and hope of spring.
There was a child went forth every day,
And the first object he look’d upon, that object he became,
And that object became part of him for the day or a certain part of the
Or for many years or stretching cycles of years.
The early lilacs became part of this child,
And grass and white and red morning-glories, and white and red
clover, and the song of the phoebe-bird,
And the Third-month lambs and the sow’s pink-faint litter, and the
mare’s foal and the cow’s calf,
And the noisy brood of the barnyard or by the mire of the pond-side,
And the fish suspending themselves so curiously below there, and the
beautiful curious liquid,
And the water-plants with their graceful flat heads, all became part of