Where is the beauty of spring?

I went for a walk, bringing my camera. But the day was one between winter and spring. The pure white cover of the snow, like the innocence of childhood, was melted away. But it did not reveal the bright green hues of new life. Instead, a scene looking like the end of life. Trees naked, barren, as if dead. The ground brown with fallen leaves, ghostly memories of a summer long past and its tragic end. As if on a planet barely fit for life, only lichen and mosses still seemed undaunted. Even the occasional green straw was covered by yellow stiff corpses of its brethren, like a survivor from a massacre, spared by oversight. An occasional conifer stood dark and brooding, as if wondering how long it could stay awake alone. All the trials of winter I have endured, and for this? In the frozen light of the photo lens, the land seemed desolate like the soul of a sinner on his first day of repentance, shocked by the sight of the decay and ugliness that had been hidden under the whiteness of ignorance. The sun seemed to hold harsh light but little warmth. There was no way for the inexperienced to know that this was the beginning of the Age of the Sun, which will inevitably call forth life abundant.

It was a strange walk. Going there, my photo lens was looking at this barren land, but the eye of my soul was already seeing the beauty that has barely yet begun to stir within, like a longing, in the rising sap of the trees, in the roots of the grass, in the spring flower buds still making their way up through the soil.

And so this is my resolution, though I am not sure if I have the strength to hold on to resolutions if I ever come to need them. But if I can, this is what I will do: When my barrenness is uncovered, and the glare of the light seems to grow harsher for each day, I will believe in the Age of the Sun. And I will feel within for the slow soft stirring that whispers toward the light: “Grow brighter yet!”