These summer days are, for me, hope gathering days. The very beauty of flowers that grace my garden and the songs of all the birds that have arrived at my feeders fill me with a sense of hope that the world is beautiful and wonderful and carries a kindness that is at its core. The warmth…even the heat…calls on our bodies to be open, be alive to the greenness and the growth that during the winter months seems only a dream. So it seems the right thing to do to gather it all up…color and sunshine and sounds of wind and music and place it in the storehouse of our heart for the needed times which are bound to arrive.

I thought of this this past week when these words of Louise Erdrich came across in something I was reading:
“Life will break you. Nobody can protect you from that, and being alone won’t either, for solitude will also break you with its yearning. You have to love. You have to feel. It is the reason you are here on earth. You have to risk your heart. You are here to be swallowed up. And when it happens that you are broken, or betrayed, or left, or hurt, or death brushes too near, let yourself sit by an apple tree and listen to the apples falling all around you in heaps, wasting their sweetness. Tell yourself that you tasted as many as you could.”

Loss. It is everywhere of course. And I have felt it deeply and have observed its presence in those I know and love. Over the last months people have left this life in quiet and in bold ways. Their loss is palpable and being present to the space they once occupied tears at the heart. Nobody can protect us from that. Yet, love and the practice of love is, I believe, the reason we are here on earth. The risks we take, that swallow us up prepare the gardens of our lives for the beauty. What else is required but to taste and feel and waste ourselves in the sweetness as long as we can and with as much enthusiasm as we can?

So these gathering days of summer are washing over us and asking us to be present, to savor, to relish the gifts of Earth and Sun. Much like the bees who are so busy on all the flowers in my garden right now…drinking deeply of color and sweetness. They flit and fly with a fury that says they know the flowers will be lost to them in a precious moment. They are tiny teachers. Of presence. Of tasting. Of hope. Of living. Of the loss that is bound to come. And the urgency of tasting as fully and as deeply of love and life as we can. 

It’s happened again. Last year, sometime in August I believe, I posted a photo of a sunflower that had planted itself in my garden. While I could logically know it was probably an errant seed dropped by a bird or one of the pesky squirrels that raid my birdfeeders, its presence still seemed magic to me.  I reflected on the gift of it and how so often the amazing things that come into our lives do so without any help from us. All the many invisible lines of connection that we are aware of…or mostly unaware of…that bring surprise and delight. The many ways unknown people support us and make our living possible and often easier. 

Well, it’s happened again. I did not plant this sunflower that has been growing and now is blooming just outside my kitchen window. But this sunflower…this SUNFLOWER…is bigger and bolder than last year’s guest. It started growing in late May while I was away from home on a long trip and has continued to get taller and wider every day for the last several weeks until now, every time I am standing at my kitchen sink, I jump thinking someone is peeking in. Oh, no. Just enormous green leaves. Oh, no. Just stupendous yellow flowers. Oh, no. Just a hungry bumblebee or a delicate monarch butterfly taking a rest among petals. 

Watching its growing progress, I have laughed to myself. Apparently the Universe surmised that I had really not received the message of the volunteer sent to wake me up last summer and so decided to do it up big this year. Not one yellow sphere but many are flanking the side of my house. I have stopped counting and now only wait in anticipation. How many will appear? The one thing I must do, am compelled to do, is to pay attention. Pay attention to the brilliance of golden color and the leaves sized to be helpful clothing Adam and Eve. Pay attention and be in awe. Pay attention and remember…I did not do this. I did not do this. 

It has, again, led me to ponder all those things that come into my life that I did not cause or create. All the people who work behind the scenes to bring food and energy and water and heat and cooling to my every day. All the bees who are busily pollinating and the food that is then grown by hands other than my own. The teachers who are instructing children who will then become the people who help me do all the important yet mundane acts that keep a house, a car, a bank account, a garden, a library, a life humming along in this beautiful and complex world. And all the researchers and scientists who are doing experiments over and over again to find cures and hope…all faces most of us will never see…yet whose work may be just what is needed now or in the future. 

This sunflower…this amazing, amazing sunflower that showed up on my doorstep is an invitation to remember all these invisible beings who flutter in the shadows of our lives. Of course the poet Mary Oliver has something to say about sunflowers:

Come with me
into the field of sunflowers.
Their faces are burnished disks,
their dry spines
creak like ship masts,
their green leaves,
so heavy and many,
fill all day with the sticky
sugars of the sun.

Gardeners will tell you that in this growing season much has come earlier than usual. The sunflower that surprised me last August has been supplanted by its genetic relative arriving in June and blooming in July. ‘Burnished disks…leaves like ship masts…filling the day with the sticky sugar of the sun.’ A wake up call. An invitation. A gift. 

And for this human, gratitude beyond measure. 

Blue. It is not even my favorite color. But last week as I was sitting at a little cafe table outside my neighborhood coffee shop enjoying an iced mocha and reading a book, I was assaulted by the color blue. I looked up at the clear, summer sky and it took my breath away. It was as if blue was screaming:”Look at me! Look at me!” And so I did. I put down the book and sat there. Transfixed by the simple beauty of blue.

Later I was drawn to this poem by the wonderful, intuitive poet, Naomi Shihab Nye:

We forget about the spaciousness
above the clouds

but it’s up there. The sun’s up there too.

When words we hear don’t fit the day,
when we worry
what we did or didn’t do,
what if we close our eyes,
say any word we love
that makes us feel calm,
slip it into the atmosphere
and rise?

Creamy miles of quiet.
Giant swoop of blue.

Since that moment when blue awakened me to the ‘spaciousness above the clouds’ I’ve been thinking about this primary color. It really is the color that is the curtain that frames the stage that is our living. It is the canopy under which we stand. I wondered how we would perceive green (my favorite) without blue. And what would the white of clouds be without their backdrop of sky blue? It says something about our need for diversity in all things, doesn’t it?

Of course there is the other meaning of blue…that feeling, that melancholy that visits all of us at one time or another. In my pursuit of all thoughts of blue I was reminded that Picasso had what was known as his “Blue Period.” During this time he painted in monochromatic shades with washes of blue. It was during a period in his life when he was responding to the poverty and instability he was experiencing and he saw reflected in the world around him. Definitely something to feel ‘blue’ about and if someone painted us on certain days, blue would likely be our color. Interestingly, these paintings are believed to be some of his most popular works. Maybe we all need a way to paint the times in our lives when blue comes to take up residence in us. 

It is a strange thing to become fixated on a color. Yet, I am thankful for it. It was, and is, another nudge toward paying attention to these fleeting summer days when blue sets the scene for the greens and other colors that grace our gardens and our days. Soon enough the blue of the sky will hold not only the white of clouds in place but reflect off the snow that will visit for a season, often one that seems to overstay its welcome. 

Perhaps on those winter days I will be able to think back on the moment that blue startled me into amazement. On those days I might remember what the poet says: “what if we close our eyes…say any word we love…that makes us feel calm…slip it into the atmosphere…and rise?Creamy miles of quiet…Giant swoop of blue.”

Yes. Blue. Blue. Blue

“Be joyful, keep the faith, and do the little things that you have heard and seen me do.”
~St. David, Patron Saint of Wales

Recently I returned from traveling in Wales where the group of folks I was with visited St. Davids, named the smallest city in the United Kingdom. I learned that if a village or town has a cathedral it becomes a city so this sweet gathering of small cottages and shops took on increased  status because it is anchored by the beautiful St. David’s Cathedral. Living in the 6th century as many Celtic saints seemed to have done, David became the patron saint of this small country. The quote above is attributed to St. David and it is said that a common statement that is made throughout the country is:“Do ye the little things in life” (“Gwnewch y pethau bychain mewn bywyd”).

I have been thinking about that statement, a commission really, over the last days. So often I can become overwhelmed by the things that need to be done in my daily life…house projects, garden duties, the things that need to be accomplished in any given life. And then there are the many acts that need to happen to help heal our relationships, communities and our world. It is so challenging to see the situations in our world that need our effort, our talents, our resources to overcome the devastating condition they are in. Homelessness. Poverty. Injustice toward others. Educational inequities. And then there is climate change. It can weigh down not only our bodies and minds but also our spirits. 

That’s why seeing these words of this ancient one captured my imagination. “Do ye the little things.” It makes it more manageable to think small, doesn’t it?  To think of the smaller possibilities I am capable of rather than allowing the weight of the larger things to paralyze me. And the fact that this declaration began with the words, “be joyful”, that rounds the edges on it all as well. Joy and small things. Seems doable.

In 2020, Siôn Aled Owen, a Welsh poet and theologian wrote this about St. Davids:
A village that thinks it’s a city,
tucked in a far corner
of a nation
that’s sometimes just part, or so it seems,
of another Nation more Great,
maybe.
With its surprise, surprise oratory
waiting to be found
by those who seek
or not.

And though the many-chambered edifice
now ascending the valley
would have shocked Dewi
with the descending visitors,
ghosting invaders,
the shy sanctuary,
the status understated,
hidden in plain sight
from the heart of the smallest city
would,
I dare imagine,
have warmed a final smile
gracing his legacy:
Do small.
Build big.

Many times doing the small things creates a pattern that leads to bigger things. Somehow I think David was counting on this. Of course this can be a positive and sometimes a negative. Our intention in the little steps can be what makes all the difference. Down the street from my house, a garden has grown through many small acts to create something greater in what always looked like a scruffy, abandoned lot. One couple thought of adopting this little plot and planting some vegetables and flowers to make a more beautiful landscape. The first year the garden and effort was small. Now it has grown to include not only veggies of all kinds, but corn, flowers, a few fruit trees and also many volunteers who harvest the food and take it to some place that gives it away to those who don’t have access to fresh produce. This group has done small things with great joy…and a little sweat and dirty hands…that has become something big and far reaching. 

Somehow St. David’s story and that of these neighborhood gardeners helps me to feel less overwhelmed and more hopeful about the world we are all creating together whether we always recognize it or not. Small acts. Big impacts. 

Much joy.

A few weeks ago I was traveling in the ‘land of sorry’. The English have a way of saying “sorry” for any manner of things. There is sorry for perhaps bumping into another person. And sorry for passing you by on the sidewalk. There is sorry for coming into a conversation that is already in progress. And there is sorry seemingly as a general greeting. It is a charming thing in some ways and makes for a humble way of moving through a day knowing you are surrounded by so many people who are sorry. We Americans might say ‘excuse me’ in some of these situations but mostly we would just move on without much attention to a simple infraction that caused a sorry out of our neighbors from across the sea. All that hearing of ‘sorry’ began to creep into my own language and after a few days I was offering my ‘sorry’ along with everyone else.

Now that I am back ensconced in my regular life here in ‘the States’ and not given to all the sorry I became accustomed to, I have to say I miss it. And in the missing I have begun to think about the gift of saying sorry, of actually offering another person an apology. I have thought of the times over the last years when we have been subjected in public life to people who don’t know how…or don’t have the capacity to say “I’m sorry.” though it is clearly called for. Recognizing the many ways we as humans fail and trespass on the feelings of others, “I’m sorry.” seems the least we could do. And, of course, that says nothing of the real and harmful tragedies being played out on the world stage for which armies of people would be wise to say ‘sorry’.

Last week in the church I attend we spoke a communal confession of ways in which we had been exclusive, had harmed others in our action and inaction, had hurt the very hearts, the very souls of our fellow humans. It is not something we do often, this confessing. I have to admit that I have often longed for a tradition in which individual confession is an ongoing practice. I wonder how my life would be different if I had the opportunity to walk into a space with someone,seen or unseen, and be able to pour out the many acts for which I am sorry. I wonder. Somehow I think I’d be better for it.

In the meantime, today I am reflecting on the places where such offerings of sorry have happened and how those words, those apologies have become a part of the wood and stone over time. Buildings have the grace to take in the pain and anguish, the sorrow and lamentation just as people do. It is a wonder the walls can still stand. Over the years we humans have had the opportunity to be sorry for so many things big and small. Wars. Abuse. Violence. Bullying. Excluding another. Saying words that hurt. Ignoring those on the margins. Failing to be our true, God-given selves. Too many chances at sorry to name.

In a poem Mary Oliver writes:
…If I were a perfect person, I would be bowing
continuously.
I’m not, though I pause wherever I feel this
holiness, which is why I’m so often late coming
back from wherever I went.
Forgive me.

It is likely I will continue to think about this ‘sorry’ business. Like Mary points out none of us is perfect and the need to ask forgiveness comes in so many forms. Perhaps it might become so present in our every day speaking that the goodness hoped for becomes a reality.

“If you have been in the vicinity of the sacred – ever brushed against the holy – you retain it more in your bones than in your head; and if you haven’t, no description of the experience will ever be satisfactory.” 
~Daniel Taylor, In Search of Sacred Places: Looking for Wisdom on Celtic Holy Islands

What makes something sacred? A place, a situation, an experience, a memory? I am just back from an amazing time in which many places were named sacred. Large churches. Tiny chapels. Impressive cathedrals. Ancient stone circles. Deep wells. While certainly not perceived as sacred by everyone, each of the places have, over time, been called sacred.They were certainly places of beauty and often mystery. They were filled with history known and recorded and also myths and tales that have been told and perhaps embellished over time. Each place had the sense of being outside the ordinary. Is that what makes them sacred?

My experiences in England and Wales had me once again reflecting on what we mean when we say sacred. If you look for the definition of sacred there are many to choose from:“Connected with God (or the gods) or dedicated to a religious purpose and so deserving veneration.  Sacred describes something that is set apart for the service or worship of a deity; is considered worthy of spiritual respect or devotion; or inspires awe or reverence among believers.” And all these are true. And yet they do not capture the fullness of my experience moving through the sunny, English countryside. These definitions somehow leave out the human element, the heart knowing, that makes up the relational nature of this naming…sacred. 

Standing in St. David’s Cathedral in Wales, I felt surrounded by the hundreds of years of worship, prayers, and music that had been shared within the glorious architecture. It was as if the very walls themselves held the stories of the people who had brought their joys and sorrows there. Sacred? Yes. The same could be said for Winchester and Salisbury Cathedrals. The beauty of stone and glass told the story not only of the faith of people, the history of the church but also the toil of what it must have taken to build such places. More than one of my fellow travelers remarked at wondering how many people actually died to build these places.A sobering thought.

And then there was Stonehenge. The mystery and magnificence of these standing stones boggles the mind. To be in the presence of this engineering marvel and, again, try to imagine the hopes that have been brought there, shared there, enacted there, offered there, makes the cold stone come alive with the human energy that has moved in and around them for thousands of years. To think about the fact that stone was carried hundreds of miles without the invention of wheel? Again, sacred.

Of course, these are places we have named as sacred that are big and bold and capture our imagination in countless ways. Jospeh Campbell wrote that “Your sacred place is where you find yourself again and again.” While some people find themselves again in these larger-than-life settings, many others come back to their true self staring at a cardinal on their backyard feeders or walking along the shore of a family lake cabin. Still others look into the eyes of a child or those of an elder and come back to knowing who they are, whose they are. As the quote above by Daniel Taylor says: “If you have been in the vicinity of the sacred – ever brushed against the holy – you retain it more in your bones than in your head; and if you haven’t, no description of the experience will ever be satisfactory.” 

I guess that is my take away, the answer to my question. Sacred is all around us. It is in the seeing that the revelation becomes ‘worthy of spiritual respect and devotion.’ May there be innumerable sacred moments for us all…and may there be a bone-deep knowing that we have, indeed, brushed up against the holy.

Start by doing what’s necessary; then do what’s possible; and suddenly you are doing the impossible.

St. Francis of Assisi

There are many things that seem impossible to me. An infant’s eyelashes, for instance. So tiny, so feathery. The way plants emerge from ground that had, just a few weeks earlier, been frozen, seeming to grow right before our eyes. A musical composition that combines sounds that set hearts to melting, eyes to watering. The presence of certain colors…blush pink, rich salmon, spring green. Impossible visual delights.

I have been thinking about impossibility much these days. Last weekend I was in the presence of one of the most stunning pieces of art I have ever seen. Standing before the sculpture titled ‘Veiled Lady’ by Raffaelo Monti at the Minneapolis Institute of Art, all my mind could think was “this seems impossible.” Of course, my mind was also screaming “this is so, so beautiful!” I have seen this sculpture numerous times and every time I say to myself “impossible.” How can we see through stone? Even with the explanation that the artist used tricks of light and polishing parts of the stone more than others creating this illusion, I never cease to stand in awe before it.

There is much in our world that seems impossible right now. How to make sense and peace in so many countries, with so many differing ways of seeing and being by those in power comes to mind. Generally, the pursuit of peace in the world often seems impossible. The fact that so many brothers and sisters live unhoused with little movement made toward finding home. And then there is the plight of our planet, climate change and the many ways and reasons people see this so differently, pushing healing and hope to the margins. It could cause humanity to simply throw our hands in the air and declare it all impossible.

Yet, Raffaelo Monti looked at a block of stone and saw what was necessary to free the lady from the cold, static rock. He then studied how light played on the stone and using tools he knew well he began to polish here…and there…allowing the light to dance in her emerging face. Fashioning a veil of stone he created for her a sense of humility and mystery. Since 1860 people have been witness to the impossibility of her beauty.

Today I am thankful for all those who turn their backs on what may seem impossible. I am thankful for those that turn toward what is necessary, grasping what is possible, all leading to what once seemed impossible. What may seem impossible to me is just being dreamed into being by someone else. It is why we need each other. Raffaelo Monti may have been surrounded by those who thought what he was trying to do was impossible. But he knew. In his creative mind and spirit, he believed he had the power to create beauty that continues to bring awe and astonishment to the world. And he did.

It is a common question asked in a variety of settings. “What is your favorite color?” When asked of young children, I’ve seen purple and pink rise to the top. When asked in an ice breaker, get-to-know you situation, people can often make assumptions about another from their answer. Red? Bold and passionate. Blue? Perhaps introspective and moody. Color is a fascinating thing that makes for great conversation and eye pleasing awe.

Here in my part of the world we perhaps have a greater appreciation, even longing, for color. Spending as much time as we do with white…or white touched by dirty gray as winter holds us in its grip, we are starved for the experience of color. Oh, the cold and wind can get to us but there are always more layers that can be added for warmth. But color…that is a whole other matter.

Green. My favorite color is green. From childhood it has been, is, and will likely always be the color that makes my heart sing. These spring days that have been colder than usual have been a nasty tease with the color green. There were hints of it poking through the ground and then, wham! Snow. White again. The gift of green snatched from us in the blink of a frosty eye.

Last week I visited my sons in Seattle and we took the ferry out to Bainbridge Island. I never pass up a chance to ride a ferry! On the island we visited Bloedel Reserve, a beautiful setting of walking paths and more green than seems possible. Walking through the tall trees and the fields, I became so aware of the various shades of green that exist. Deep, rich green. Brilliant green we’ve named ‘kelly’. Pale,almost yellow, green which you can glimpse as buds begin to emerge. This sea of green was the intention of founder Prentice Bloedel who created this preserve and was also color blind. The acres are void of many flowering trees with an emphasis on green. Just green. I am not sure how colorblindness works but apparently green was something he was able to discern. And I was thankful for it.

Green is the color that says growth. It signals a hope that stimulates creativity and mirrors for us the possibility of new life. It is the color that surprises our tired, ice weary eyes when the season makes a turn. Wake up! Something wonderful is about to happen! It calls us to a wildness we can forget when our shoulders are pulled up to our ears and we forget to look into the lovely eyes of those we pass on our winter walk. Green can remind us of that child that still lives within us urging us outside to play.

Of course when it comes to the color green, we would expect poet Mary Oliver to weigh in:

Don’t you dare climb that tree
or even try, they said, or you will be
sent way to the hospital of the
very foolish, if not the other one.
And I suppose, considering my age,
it was fair advice.

But the tree is a sister to me, she
lives alone in a green cottage
high in the air and I know what
would happen, she’d clap her green hands,
she’d shake her green hair, she’d
welcome me.  Truly.

I try to be good but sometimes
a person just has to break out and
act like the wild and springy thing
one used to be.  It’s impossible not
to remember wild and not want to go back.

So if someday you can’t find me you might
look into that tree or—of course
it’s possible—under it.

Every day now, green is calling, inviting us to break out and remember. Wildness. Spring. Color.

I’m so, so ready and I hope you are, too.

If I have seen further it is by standing on the shoulders of giants.
~Isaac Newton

The sentiment of these words by Newton have been said in a variety of ways over the years. I have read and heard them in so many places and they always bring me up short. Because of their truth. And because so many times I forget or behave as if it were not so. They showed up again in the book, Good Enough, I have been reading during the season of Lent. This time with the citation as to their origin. I have been thinking of them since I read them a few days ago and it has led me to name some of those on whose shoulders I stand. Those who have helped me see further, or more openly, more critically, more inclusively, with a hoped for wisdom.

I had been thinking of these words even before I read them in the book because of an amazing sculpture I saw on a recent trip to New Orleans. In the sculpture garden of the City Park, I came upon this artwork by Do-Ho Suh, a brilliant Korean artist. It is called ‘Karma’. Coming around a bend in the beautiful, green gardens it rose several feet high causing a catch in my breath. Its creation seemed nearly impossible to me. Its power was deep and I felt awestuck in its presence. The weight of each person standing on the shoulders of the next and the next and the way the bodies bent in that weight seemed so exact. I thought of the people who have perhaps bent under the weight of those who stood, even metaphorically, on their shoulders. Parents. Grandparents. Teachers. Care-givers. Neighbors. Leaders. Spiritual guides. Friends. So many people, so many shoulders, so many lives.

If the sculpture weren’t enough to send this message swirling in my mind, further in the chapter in which the Newton quote was written author Kate Bowler writes: “It’s hard to remember a deeper, comforting truth: we are built on a foundation not our own. We were born because two other people created a combination of biological matter. We went to schools where dozens and dozens of people crafted ideas and activities to construct categories in our minds. We learn skills honed by generations of craftspeople. We pray and worship with spiritual ideas refined by centuries of tradition. Almost nothing about us is original. Thank God.”

We are built on a foundation not our own. In this world that tries to imprint a message that we are all self-made, this is a wake up call. In our culture that emphasizes individuality as a highest value, it is so difficult to remember all the people who shaped and sacrificed and nurtured and even prayed over our unfolding. Though many may no longer be with us it is still, I believe, important to remember them, to even say their names aloud and to breathe our gratitude. For the strength of their shoulders and the weight of their bending. 

I do not have the gift of creating such a powerful sculpture. But I do have the gift of remembering. In this unfolding season of spring when growth will be visible in countless ways, I will give thanks for those on whose shoulders I have stood, those who have bent with the weight of urging my growth. Those who have helped me see further. And further. And further.

It has happened every morning for perhaps the last two weeks. At around 6:20 a.m. as I drink my morning coffee and write a few thoughts that have come to me in the middle of some form of sleep, I hear it. The song of a cardinal someplace nearby. Singing. Giving voice to one of the few bird songs I can identify. The first morning it happened I was jolted out of the early morning fog that is winter by its pure sound. When it began to happen every morning and at the same time I was filled with wonder. What is happening for this scarlet beauty at just this particular time of every morning? Do birds have some internal alarm that says the day is new and on its way? Now I wait for it and would be not a little distraught if I didn’t hear it.

The other thought that came to mind was whether or not the cardinal has any sense at all as to the hope its song sings into the world for this particular human. Tired of snow. Depressed by gray. Weary of having so many layers of clothing to carry around on my bones. Did this small act of Creation have any idea the joy its melodious voice brings to the world? My sense it is simply doing what it does and there is a reason unknown to me for the time, the tune. I pray there is some joy in its body as it sings out in the still frigid hours of the morning.

I was reminded of the poem by one who seems to be able to know the birds in ways I cannot. Mary Oliver in her poem Red Bird writes:

Red bird came all winter
firing up the landscape
as nothing else could.

Of course I love the sparrows, 
those dun-colored darlings,
so hungry and so many.

I am a God-fearing feeder of birds.
I know He has many children,
not all of them bold in spirit.

Still, for whatever reason-
perhaps because the winter is so long
and the sky so black-blue,

or perhaps because the heart narrows
as often as it opens –
I am grateful

that red bird comes all winter
firing up the landscape
as nothing else could.

It is true we do see the cardinal all winter in these places I call home. But the song is not always present. Perhaps this winged one is also sensing spring and is urging its arrival with the beauty of its music. I am full of hope for that as well.

These days find some of my closest friends and I holding a sacred space for one of our dear ones whose life was driven by the love of those who could take wing. He is walking his last days on land and is slowly inching toward taking wing. He has lived a life ‘bold in spirit’ and has taught so many of us a love for those whose flight is beautiful and seemingly impossible to the gravity held ones. As we walk this path with him, we are trying with all our might to cause our too often narrow hearts to open with gratitude. For him. For the birds he loves.For this life we all are privileged to live.

Over the next mornings I will listen for the cardinal’s song and I will allow my heart to open and be filled. With grace. With gratitude. With love. With hope. Knowing that the red bird is ‘firing up the landscape as nothing else could.’ It is as it has always been and will be.