Spring Forward

My favorite season used to be the Fall.
Perhaps it was the promise of dove season after the first cool front blew down from the high plains, bringing with it hummingbirds and butterflies?
Perhaps it was the advent of my favorite sedentary sport: football viewing with friends.
Perhaps it was the reprieve from the brutal Texas summer?
I'm not sure anymore.

My backyard is astir with life: it is the Spring.
Flowers are blooming, the ash tree is replete with green, and the crippled old mulberry tree digs deep to begin the process of soon making mulberries.
The dove are ridiculous in their amorous advances, while other feathered friends begin their own forms of persuasive speech, that annual festival of plumage and performance that echos millennia of fitness to a listening female audience.

In the midst of this expression of life is this thing: Lent.
It is something that spurs the pilgrim towards self-flagellation, a fitting counter to the indulgences of a fat Tuesday much like that post-holiday penance perpetuated on the parish: New Year's resolution... Except it is deemed more sacred. The story goes that Passover draweth nigh, a time of remembering and feasting: perhaps this Lenton season is the backdrop behind which such festivities are better appreciated, a contrast of bright upon grayness? And in this metamorphosis of chrysalitic emergence blossoms the pinks, yellows and purples of Easter-- an important, important reminder that, like Lent, the grayness of life will pass into something beyond, a hope unimagined except in the purest of dreams.

Two friends bury their wives this week.