Spring Training

Daffodils burst as my New Year's fireworks.
Time to count another year.

(This spring makes 37...squarely in the "late thirties" camp, as my 40-something husband keeps telling me.)

Since at least high school, they've been my reminder. March-27th-Amy would bring daffodils or buttercups to this March-28th-friend. I'll never forget friendships and fresh starts as long as the spring flowers bloom again.

I feel more like a rusty, used-to-be-purposeful hinge (that the birds have pooped on) these days than blooming yellow sunshine. But daffodils force me to pull out my camera, and now I see in a different light. Beauty, even in the changing, the wearing out and wearing down. Purpose and calling, the courage to be not-enough, poured-out, beyond-the-end-of-myself.