It was the first day of April’s last week. All the months arrive on Earth prepared for any eventuality. They are schooled in the vagaries of Earth’s weather. Still, as April surveyed the scene around her, she shook her head in amazement at the challenges she had met during her stay.
The little flowers had complained of the cold and didn’t want to wake at all. Even the buds on the trees were stubborn. She had to sing waking songs for many more days than she had planned.
Nevertheless, at last everything was on schedule. The trees were tracing lacy patterns against the sky, the cherry blossoms and daffodils had opened. The songbirds were arriving by the hour. And today, April laughed to see the first batch of dandelions roaring their sunsongs from the lawns and fields.
She was pleased, and satisfied that she had done her best. And that was all, she knew, that was ever expected.
The little joy-bringers roll bright as snow across the woodland’s floor. Over the hillsides they tumble by the hundreds, tiny chimes of light and cheer, ushering in spring, ushering in a cascade of new life so huge that it exceeds imagination.
How delicate these beauties, these sweet heralds of spring! How unassuming and gentle, how simple and pure! Yet what unparalleled happiness they bring!
Here, as the year births into being, green lace bursts lightly from the boughs. The brook carries little fishes and the bullfrog’s bold song, and sky blue tumbles down the hills and into the laughing waters.
This is the land of the beaver and coyote, of the rabbits and raccoons. Here hawks sail overhead and singing birds fill the trees’ branches. And now, as the April midwifes the year’s green into being, the hearts of all creatures sing.
It is springtime, and all the earth is glad. It is spring. It is spring. It is spring.
In fact, they loved love. They spread the rays of friendship, and comfort and healing wherever they bloomed. Children adored them and chanted their name, laughing. Lovers sought their magic, tucking them away as charms, sleeping with pressed blossoms in their pillows. Old women believed that they kept evil spirits away. And they were right.
For who could be anything but true and kind in the face of such sweet beauty?
Before the rains even begin, the promise is given: The light will return.
And the rains, child, will feed the waking flowers with the colors of the sky, drenching them with the secret hues that they alone, on earth, may wear. All things have their purpose. Even the rain.
Don’t let the seeming dreariness dismay you; the hours and days of darkness have their reasons, too.
But know this. You forever hold the light and all its hues within your heart. It can sing to you, clear and pure, even when all seems lost.
I tell you this, my darling one, even before the rains begin: The light always returns and always shall, forever.
Oh, Yes, sweet April! Bring on your green! Open the tender leaves to the sun and let them sing.
Bring on the green of promises, of hope fulfilled, of life renewed, the green of our nourishment and healing.
Oh, how our eyes have waited! Oh, how our parched hearts leaned toward your days!
And here you are, unfurling your miracles, spreading your balm of joy across the land as if it were nothing at all.
Shyly the small tulip opens her petals. She is the first and knows not what to expect.
The air is cool and clear. From somewhere high above music falls from the throats of birds. It is unlike any she has ever known, alive and filled with gladness.
The light is soft and fills everything. Color is everywhere, and beyond what must be the arms of trees, an infinite sky sings a morning Gloria.
She had been told that it would be more beautiful than words could tell, than any mere flower could imagine. But this, this exceeded the farthest stretches of her highest dreams. And she opens her petals and dances with joy.
He kept flying, landing at the lakes, large and small, and keeping an eye out for his companions. But it had been many days now and he was beginning to accept that he was alone.
One morning, as he flew through a stretch of especially pleasant air, he heard a beautiful and alluring song unlike any he had heard before. It sounded a bit like the sighing of trees, but it had a melody to it that seemed, somehow, to be calling him.
He adjusted his course and flew toward the song, growing more and more enraptured by it with every stroke of his wings. It almost seemed that the song itself was holding him aloft and guiding his direction.
At last he found himself over a pair of small, twin lakes, joined by a sweet little waterfall. And it seemed as if it were these lakes themselves and the trees surrounding them that were singing the music that had called him. “Welcome, little bird. Welcome,” they sang.
He lowered himself to the waters and found them just the right temperature and depth for perfect swimming. Below him he saw abundant fishes in patches of dancing light and shade. Looking about, he saw a tall heron wading at the west edge of the pond, and a single, elegant mallard paddling gracefully near the eastern shore.
He didn’t know if these were ponds for the lost or for the lucky. But they felt like heaven, and he decided to call them home.
They come, as do we all, from an unseen dimension, filled with destiny and luck.
Here, in the clear, fresh air, in this hidden stretch of water, they will learn to fish and to hunt for snacks in the sands, to spread their wings and take to the sky. They are gods there, inheritors of ancient ways, masters of the air and of the elements.
But it is here, in this quiet, sheltered creek bend that they will burst, sweet and fragile, into the world. Walk softly.
Even the bugs look happy. See that tiny one over there on the left, with all its little feet and its tall, curved antennae?
I love these little guys. So small, but brimming with such joy. They’re hardy, too, and brave, popping up before the risk of snow is gone.
Have you seen the way they close up for the night, tucking themselves in, then spreading open again when morning’s light kisses their petals?
They themselves are like kisses for the soul. Every year they come back, just to sing their Yes, just to remind that we are dearly loved.