The Moss Shoots; It SPORES!
Spring is not officially here for another week. I suppose I could go on in some blithering fashion about the joys of the season. I’m afraid, sometimes of writing about spring because I don’t want to cheapen it. I worry that, as Mr. Carpenter tells Emily Starr in LM Montgomery’s New Moon series, Spring, like June, may have been done to death by poets and writers alike.
There is nowhere else in the world as beautiful as New England in spring, not to me at any rate. A wonderful dark muddy green smell is rising up from the river near my apartment. The air is silver and faintly pale green. The moss is sending up feathery growth. The air is also a bit dusty; I’m not a scientist but I wonder if that’s from thawed out and drying earth without much new green life to hold it.
The head of Adult Religious Ed at my Church drew me aside two weeks ago and told me he wants to take up a collection for me to help get me to Divinity School. This was staggering. We don’t have the most obvious wealth as a congregation, but for such a community to even think about trying to help me in such a way…I don’t know. This may be like trying to describe a brilliant bit of slapstick comedy; maybe this is a ‘you had to be there’ story and I won’t be able to illustrate what it meant to me or why.