The longer I live, the slower I walk.  There just seems to be more and more to see.  I walk the same neighborhood year after season after rain and sun.  Like a snail-slow movie I am given a sneak peek of red-fuzzed buds wrestling open to layers of transparent white petals.  If angels got married, these are the flowers that would be in their bouquets.

All of a sudden trees are turning pink.  Called cherry trees, many of them never droop with fruit, but are man-made for flowers only.  Courtyards obscured with pink pink pink.  What is pink, what does it mean to be surrounded in pink?  Red and white make pink, the color of humanity.  Fire and openness.  Passion and willingness–certainly that describes our human dance.  I see myself, some kind of angel, flailing my hands at the Teacher: “Pick ME!  Pick me for that challenging life you have on that pretty planet!  Pick ME!!”

And here we are, passion and pain, willingness and laughter.  Torn open with tears from love stories so very different than we imagined.  Twists in the path confusing and torturous.  Great successes and spontaneous miracles of personal spring.  Born again and again without dying.  Many times I feel like slapping my forehead and saying, “What WAS I thinking?!?!  This is hard and I want to go home.”

Today with the pink trees and puddles, I bow to the brilliant idea of having my little feet to walk this planet.