A tiny white crocus smiles at itself in the middle of a wild field–planted, sprouted in snow, blossoms for a few days and surrenders to another season of seed.  Tightly clenched still-sleeping English daisies covering the hill in contemplative dots cling to the comfort of the grass.  It is not yet dawn on this gray morning.

Be a path of grace.  Be a conduit of the Divine Creator on earth.  Enjoy creation: mud puddles, wind-flattened briars, broad territorial calls from the tallest tree, chattering invisible hoards of exalted sparrows.  Dead blackened leaves scattered and true, sqwaking crows, soaring snail seaplanes tracing their daily path to the city. 

I am a path.  With my faith-full boots I can walk through the muddy womb waters of rebirth.  Today I walk with the Divine hand in hand.  I am a Way.  I am a Truth.  I am a Light.