Late March sky. Vibrant and blue with the promise of all things new and renewed. Streaked with the evidence of the constant movement, change, the energy of all that is stirring.
The frogs are croaking, the ducks flush from the wetlands on my early walk, the geese fly overhead in pairs, alerting me with their honking. And the long slow parade of green unfurlings marches another step each day.
But my attention keeps returning to the sky. This time of year, with the light changing so fast, I feel the humming energy inside me. If I try to control it, to hold it in, it becomes anxiety. So I try to let it move through me.
I look up and think about how I strain to imagine what this patch of earth looked like a hundred or five hundred or five thousand years ago, but beings from all time gazed up at the sky and saw the same dance of light and color, the same pageant of cloud. This little reminder of the vastness of time and place is so good when the light is unsettling and work feels urgent on all fronts and the news cycle is a never-ending nightmare.
And sometimes, the blossoms and the sky appear together, and it might be the most magical of all.