Spring is springing in the Northeast. There are wood violets in the grass, forsythia on the hill and daffodils filling random borders and byways. The birds are ecstatically building nests and singing for mates. The world is awake with hope.
Spring bubbles up like laughter through the 30 degree mornings, past the craziness of daylight savings time, and despite any diagnosis of body, politics or global health. Nature gives us a small window into God’s grace, however you call it or perceive it.
Laughter, humor is much like spring. Bubbling up in our support groups, our memory cafes–seeing the humor, the irony and the complete nonsensical in behaviors, our responses, and our best attempts.
I consider the birds’. Their brains are minuscule compared to ours. They hang onto the branches through gale force winds, sometimes the bird feeders are full, other times not. Yet they sing. Yet they build the nest. They carry on despite the cat next door, the dogs on the other side. Just as we giving care rise from our beds for another day. Looking for strands of hope and strains of laughter to make the nest as sturdy as we can. Together we chatter and sing and raise our heads to laugh. Not in the rain, lest we drown, but right afterwards. We hang on, and we sing and we look for the laughter.
