Here in Virginia, Spring has sprung. I know it’s true, because the daffodils at the end of my front walk are blooming!
This Spring, we’re already experiencing an unusual number of damp days. Yesterday’s storm caused standing water in places around the yard that had never before been so wet. Much of my side and back yard became a pond. It’s official, 2020 broke temperature and precipitation records across the state. Climate change is real.
This is my second most favorite time of year (Fall being my favorite), because all the tiny wildflowers that some people consider weeds begin blooming all over my yard. They remind me that so much of our experience in this life depends on our perspective — what others see as annoying weeds to be rid of, I see as beautiful models of natural resilience. They make me so happy! They are so small and so delicate and so persistent — coming back year after year — despite my brother-in-law’s insistence on mowing them down! Pictures from my yard are to the right.
You may remember that this past Fall, one of my uncle’s died. He and I shared a love of the English language and of the evolution of English literature — both having majored in English at University. Each Spring, as my family gathered for Easter, my uncle would regale us with his rendition of Chaucer’s ode to spring found in The Canterbury Tales. As is the case with mourning, I am tearing up a bit as I share with you this quintessential celebration of Spring (darkened “e”s are pronounced as separate syllable):
Whan that Aprille with his shoures soote,
The droghte of March hath perced to the roote,
And bathed every veyne in swich licour
Of which vertu engendred is the flour;
Whan Zephirus eek with his swete breeth
Inspired hath in every holt and heeth
The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne
Hath in the Ram his halfe cours y-ronne,
And smale foweles maken melodye,
That slepen al the nyght with open ye,
So priketh hem Nature in hir corsages,
Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages . . .
Blessings, Rev. Lee Anne