Each day relates itself to the one preceding it, and to the one ahead, yet each is in itself unique, a whole bright coin to squander on in memory, to hoard. Each is a fresh beginning. I am aware that on our calendar spring doesn't arrive until the twenty-first, but for me it starts as soon as our brief, and often violent, February has shaken herself free from the chains of ice and gone her way for another year.
and goes on to say:
Downstairs in one huge wooden container there are two begonias, grown by Gussie, and forever flowering. One of these days they are going to grow right up through the living room ceiling and try to get into the sunroom above. They have a fascination for me, rather like Jack's Beanstalk and I love the flowers which bloom, fall, and bloom again, wearing the shapes of dark pink hearts.
They remind me that springtime really begins in the human heart, no matter how wintery things have been; in site of the ice-cold clutch of fear, the chilling reminder of grief, the ordinary day-by-day fatigue which clogs the wings of the mind like heavy snow, or the sensation which I often have of walking through the days and weeks, very delicately on terribly thin ice. But the heart's springtime still looks back to loveliness remembered, forward to happiness hoped for; and the sun within is that of the affection we give to others and receive from them; the inner light is the illumination of one's own citadel of spiritual security, a sort of conquering.
Taken from Living by Faith, by Faith Baldwin
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| Faith Baldwin |
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