The new year came in with a series of deaths.
Death of a short-lived love, which might have bloomed, which never could.
Death of a friend, who long ago assembled a series of my writings and inserted them into something he called a web log, a blog–not this one, but the introduction to a new way of creating, for me. He saw a lot, lived a lot, and I loved to hear his stories, and his gentle urges for me to write, write more. His only request for this gift was that I should urge someone younger, when I am older. His generosity inspires me still.
Death, last of all, of my mother. I cannot say enough to do justice to her inspiration. She had many dreams in her life–grand ones!–and taught me the importance of living well, in so many ways, of loving well. She taught me, too, to dream.
I think of these dear moments, as snow falls gently here on a Sunday morning, snow that cannot decide if it might not rather be rain on this not-so-cold day, day that despite big storms and exertions of winter, may–as the groundhog promised– consider the possibility of spring not so long from now, days that repeat in all the splendor that this life brings us.