Spring Journal: Milkweed
One spring morning, my son and I planted milkweed.
We talked about soil. And butterflies. And the illusion of separateness.
He’s thirteen—his mind busy with bikes and girls and dreams of his first truck. He may not remember the words. But maybe he’ll remember the light. The dirt beneath our hands. The feel of being together.
This piece is about parenting, impermanence, and planting truths that may only bloom when the time is right.
Spring Journal: Treetops
Spring has returned with a shout—
green bursting from every branch, every stone, every breath.
This reflection is about a single dogwood blossom high in the canopy…
and how, from the angle of a wheelchair, it became visible—separate, and yet never apart.
Everything flows. Everything belongs.
Even what stands out for a moment.
Spring Journal: Night Music
The Spring Peepers are back—
a single, bell-like voice calling through the darkness, announcing spring’s return.
This reflection is about what begins in puddles that vanish.
Tiny, temporary worlds that hold entire lifetimes—
and the soft chorus that reminds us: everything transforms.
Spring Journal: Rain
After days of rain, the water wins.
This reflection is about the gloom that seeps through windows and minds alike—
and the deep, green becoming that only a long soaking can bring.
Let the roots drink. Let the forest rise.
Let the flood become the canopy.
Spring Journal: Pasture
The valley turns green from the bottom up.
Clover unfurls. Deer rise from the grass. The stream whispers. Birds sing dusk into being.
This reflection is about spring’s soft abundance—
and the quiet miracle of being part of it all.
Nothing is separate. Everything is complete.
Spring Journal: Eclipse
During the eclipse, everything familiar grew strange.
Noon looked like dusk. Birds sang the wrong songs. The valley turned sepia.
This reflection is about that rare shadow—
and the other eclipses we live through silently: grief, illness, depression.
But shadows pass.
The smaller thing cannot forever block the greater light.
Spring Journal: The Joke
The groundhogs don’t know the stream floods.
They just dig. Sip. Rest. Begin again.
This piece is about watching them work—
And realizing we do the same.
We build our lives beside a stream that will rise and sweep it all away.
But in that certainty, there’s freedom. In that impermanence, a strange lightness.
What if falling… is just another word for flight?
Spring Journal: Color
Spring enters like whispered fire—
green rising from the soil, violet crocuses flaring in the grass, redbuds exploding in magenta flame.
This reflection is about the return of color—
how sunlight carries every shade, and how each blossom, leaf, and bird shines by what it gives back.
Grace shines on everything.
We’re made visible by what we choose to reflect.
Spring Journal: Double
Today, between storm clouds and sunlight, a double rainbow arched above the valley.
Sharp and vivid at first, then slowly dissolving into watercolor softness before vanishing entirely.
A reminder of how beauty arrives suddenly, intensely, and briefly—
impossible to hold, perfect in its passing.
Spring Journal: Thud!
For nearly two years, one red cardinal waged war against his own reflection—
striking window after window, fighting a rival made only of light and fear.
This piece is about that bird.
About what happens when we mistake illusion for threat…
and what grace feels like when we finally stop hitting the glass.