Then, in Jane Hirshfield's new book Ten Windows, I read this:
"The more defined a period of time, the more we feel it is vulnerable, subject to transience."
I wonder if that is why I sometimes hesitate to offer a moment. Does it appear too fragile, like the dainty orange poppy that falls apart in our hands?
I'm going to offer something now because it has stayed with me, so has moved out of the realm of vulnerability and transience. On Easter Sunday, we drove over to the East Bay to gather family at my son Chris and his wife Frieda's home. We were early, naturally, so stopped at a coffee shop beforehand. It was raining, which as anyone familiar with CA this year will know is a celebration. Each drop is reverenced. We rush to tell our plants, "Drink, please, drink. This is a gift. We can't promise it will come again."
This day, two young children, siblings, a little boy around two and a little girl about four or five saw something was happening outside and went to the door, tentative at first - a hand, another hand, a foot, and then, both were dancing and waving their arms in the rain. That celebration still wings and rings my heart. Everytime I think of those children, I smile. I know some of you have been inundated with snow, but when everyday brings sunshine, there is nothing like the joy of rain, and the prance of children savoring what nourishes inside and out.