It’s springtime here. The birds have been nesting for some time, from the portly, libidinous woodpigeons, and the sweetly faithful collared doves, down to the two tiny wrens who spend hours carrying little feathers and bits of moss into the heart of the old ivied cherry-plum tree, dotted with white flowers for a month now.
It seems to me no accident that Easter is celebrated in springtime. However you understand the story of the resurrection, it is a new beginning. Nothing will be the same, now.
It’s like this every spring: the seasons will not turn back, and though there may be unseasonal frosts, and days of wind and hail that strip the flowers, and chill the young birds in their nests, this year is under way, this year that has never been before. Life emerges, new life from the seed of the old, cells fizzing with pattern and change…
Luke records two angels at the empty tomb saying to Mary Magdalen and her companions, “Why do you look for the living among the dead?” It is not winter any longer: love has spoken across what is, and its word is life.