Lots of sad news this week, tempered by some blessings:
- The 50th birthday lunch of a good friend ("well, it is better than the alternative")
- Clean lymph nodes; is there anyone still innocent of the importance of that news?
- Spring flowers; even though they come around every year, doesn't it seem like we especially need them this year?
Every day, the good and bad and mundane all mixed together. This poem -- with its irresistible title -- spoke to me particularly loudly.
In every instant, two gates.
One opens to fragrant paradise,
one to hell.
Mostly we go through neither.
Mostly we nod to our neighbor,
lean down to pick up the paper,
go back into the house.
But the faint cries—ecstasy? horror?
Or did you think it the sound of distant bees,
making only the thick honey of this good life?