When Spring feels late, though right on time, with rain, and chill, and thaw, I wonder at my aching heart so broken and so raw. My spirit is tired of winter and all its dark and cold; my spirit less enduring than one season growing old. I feel this way in these, our times, about hate and war and fear, I long for our deliverance from weeping and from tears. I weep, I rage, I march the streets, baffled by our choices to surrender our own liberties in support of others' vices. Always, I am impatient, for life to rise anew, though death must have her way at first as all such powers do. And then the dream I dreamed so very long ago comes back to me with urgency, my three-ages in a row standing oh, so quietly, within a tomb so hushed, sealed, and dark, yet glowing bright with something Other than light. Upon a bed hewn out of rock a body wrapped in white, and three of me silently waiting, one old and patient, with no weight to passing time; second a bridge between age and youth, biding and abiding the passing of days; the third young and wearied with waiting, willing the winter to be over, the wars to end, the body to rise, and new life to begin. There were words that echoed in that silence: words my heart carries still, about the meeting of time, and how we, our bodies held by Chronos, and our souls in Kairos, must wait yet, over and over, until the three days are met.
Courage my dears. May we endure the waiting. May we infuse it with kindness and awareness. May we love one another through and beyond it. May it be so.
