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March’s ire prolonged a soggy grayness that flummoxed root systems timed to fire their greenness above ground. Wetness loosened gumballs from specter branches and hurtled them like grenades toward slick pavements. Solitary patches of fescue, like punk hair, bullied wilted mounds of zoysia on lawns. A squirrel twitched its nose, tossed back its head. A dog shivered, leaned into its leash as it scrambled onto my neighbor’s porch.

Yet, the rains dripped into April. Like those safely ensconced within Noah’s ark we yearned for the sun’s energy to restore dryness and color to our land.

All the while, a happening in my flowerbed gave me pause. The tips of six green blades began to push through the protective mulch—unheard of because of nothing having been planted there. Weeks passed. Like daunting gymnasts strutting their stuff, more blades appeared, not without being pommeled by winds and biting rains. Nothing would stop the growth of these daffodils, not even Easter Sunday’s sleet storm.

Three days later, the sun’s warmth lowered the heads of the tight buds and unraveled them; their yummy yellow still trumpets hope for all to hear.

Such display, in microcosm, reflects the Unseen Hand bestowing life in its full color and symmetry, despite insurmountable obstacles. We have only to observe …



Such a delight!

Next to my front porch, four-petelled forsythia blossoms, trumpet-like, hang suspended from arching branches, tossed by trickster winds.



Like the sun, their yellow encodes itself upon our cells and shakes us free from winter’s bondage of graying-browns shivering our worlds.

It laughs in the face of winter’s illusory enslavement of our spirits.

This is real comedy.


Yellow is a “color capable of charming God.” So wrote Vincent van Gogh from his yellow house in sun-drenched Arles, an experience embedded within his painting of Vase with Fourteen Sunflowers (1889).




Indeed, yellow sings. Yellow hums and smiles and surprises. It warms. It directs. It challenges. It floods dusky places.

Note its presence in the world of our senses: grosgrain bows in the brunette braids of a toddler, forsythias and daffodils and dandelions, mounds of scrambled eggs, lemons and bananas and squash and currents, a wool-pressed cardigan, accents used in decorating, caution lights in street signals, aging of paper, and so much more.

The world we cannot see also contains the color yellow: the third chakra, center of confidence, decision-making, and personal power; shimmering dreams; the halos of saints; lesser sunny spirits; the transitional stage (citrinitas) in the alchemical transformation from chaos to the philosopher’s stone.

However, there is a dawn-light that preempts all the above; it washed that empty rock-hewn tomb in first-century-Palestine and still compels spirits to a giddying hope.

Happy Easter!





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