"All Which Isn't Singing Is Mere Talking"

Seldom have I seen a more exuberant springtime. It's been defiantly celebratory, a long colorful sequence of wildflower blooms, bright sweet fragrances of orchard, earth recklessly, rambunctiously alive. Now we're in the yellow mustard phase. It's almost surreal...isn't it?

Yesterday I walked with a good friend, talked a lot, probably too much, and began to hope that I'm not leaning too heavily on others. But maybe this is what we're supposed to do for one another, and maybe one day I will be the one on the helping side, drawing upon these new lessons in compassion. In any case, it felt good to air my worries in the sunlight, hear feedback based on experience, perspective, and caring, and then just look around and breathe.

We took the higher road here, climbing gradually, then steeply for a short distance, and followed by a long and leisurely descent. Look at that crazy world! How blessed I am to witness its outrageous ongoingness, to walk straight into the yellow and blue.

Happy Easter, and one more view...why not? This is looking toward the mountains as one exits near Gaviota State Park and heads toward Highway 101.

And I should add that the title of this post is a line from E.E. Cummings, who also wrote the following poem about spring:

Spring is like a perhaps hand
(which comes carefully
out of Nowhere)arranging
a window into which people look(while
people stare
arranging and changing placing
carefully there a strange
thing and a known thing here)and
changing everything carefully
spring is like a perhaps
Hand in a window
(carefully to
and fro moving New and
Old things,while
people stare carefully
moving a perhaps
fraction of flower here placing
an inch of air there)and
without breaking anything.