Blessed are you, spring,bright season of life awakening.
You gladden our hearts with opening buds and returning leaves as you put on your robes of splendour.
For in your life no death can survive as you exchange places with winter.
You harbour no unforgiving spirit for broken tree limbs and frozen buds.
Season of hope and renewal.
Wordless poem about all within us that cannot die.
Each year you amaze us with the miracle of returning life.
New life has returned,
Then after a day’s sunshine,
Makes one realise,
Then on deeper reflection,
May we find the illumination of truth and light on our path!
JUST A THOUGHT are one minute reflective pieces broadcast weekdays 7.30am and 12pm on Radio Kerry. I featured on last week’s series. Here they are in case you missed them.
A butterfly has transformed yesterday to welcome Spring in Gleanawillin.
A daffodil in the most uncared for space.
Winter light still
Ripples in the rock pool.
The loud seagulls are mating and picking nesting sites.
The snowdrops are out at the Holy Well
Autumn dying leaves are enabling new growth in another form.
Doing the rounds, nature will meet you at whatever depth you go to.
Going within reveals nests of thoughts and beliefs that form us from the inside out.
The last rose of summer that has survived the winter, vulnerable beauty ready to let go.
Sketchy skeletoned leafless trees reveal dark interiors.
Morning reflective light,
Afternoon slanting light,
And the stars at night in clear skies,
A Thought-provoking idea :
You must know that there is nothing higher and stronger and more wholesome and good for life in the future than some good memory, especially a memory of childhood, of home. People talk to you a great deal about your education, but some good, sacred memory, preserved from childhood, is perhaps the best education. If a man carries many such memories with him into life, he is safe to the end of his days, and if one has only one good memory left in one’s heart, even that may sometime be the means of saving us.
Fyodor Dostoyevsky, The Brothers Karamazov
What wonderful bird-song these glorious mornings!