spring

Except for the Violets

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“Everything is terrible,” she said,
“except for daffodils.”
I nodded.
Everything seems so, so terrible—
except the daffodils are blooming.
And the lenten roses.
And forsythia and saucer magnolias.
Cherry blossoms tumble in the breeze
like spring snow.
Everything is terrible—
except for the violets scattered across the lawn
and the purple-red blossoms on the redbuds.
The hyacinths’ perfume smells heavenly.
Newborn leaves, feather-fine
sprout on the tulip poplar.
The whole treescape wears a green sheen.
Bluebirds are moving into the birdhouse.
Doves, cardinals, chickadees, sparrows
sing welcome to the warmth of spring,
Children run and play, smile and laugh.
I hold out both of my hands, palms up.
In one, I feel the weight of everything terrible,
in the other, the fullness of everything good,
for goodness and beauty have weight too.
I try to find the balance.
I wish all people,
everyone everywhere,
could hold only goodness, kindness, beauty.
But life has never been that way.
Maybe someday?
For now, I close my hand around the terrible,
feel it as a hard, jagged rock.
I cannot let it go, for it is real and demanding,
and I cry for it,
for I know that it does not have to be.
But then there is my other hand,
my always open hand,
holding the weight of goodness,
which is surprisingly firm and powerful
even as it sits soft as a butterfly in my hand.
Goodness, kindness, beauty—
in this hand is life,
creating and recreating,
loving and laughing,
always growing like spring.
This open hand is for sharing,
especially when it seems that everything is terrible.
Yes, there is this hard, jagged, hurtful rock,
but look—
see?
There is also a butterfly.
-kh-

Nurture peace, cultivate kindness, and carry the calm.

Nature of the week:


Shadow of the week:

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Text and photos © Karyn Henley 2025. All rights reserved.

Spring Storm Symphony

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A river of storm-strong air,
cool and damp,
poured through my open window,
and swept across my bed,
a stream of fresh silver morning
filled with whispers of rain to come,
this news confirmed moments later
by the timpani of the heavens,
a deep-throated drumroll of thunder,
or as we used to say,
angels bowling
or God’s voice rumbling,
“I am here, I am near.”
Then in one delicious moment,
the innocent-looking layer of clouds
releases a world-class waterfall.
It’s a symphony of storm—
wind, thunder, rain—
in a rushing cascade,
a wet, splashing tumble of spring
with surprise guest artists
singing through the storm:
a chorus of birds.
Each time the rain and wind diminish,
the birds crescendo.
Their whistles, chirps, and chortles
sound like celebration,
like gratitude,
like sweet contentment,
like aren’t you glad to be right here,
right now,
refreshed
on this splendid silver morning?
Yes, beautiful symphony.
Yes.
I am.
– kh –

Nurture peace, cultivate kindness, and carry the calm.

Nature of the week:


Shadow of the week:

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Text and photos © Karyn Henley 2025. All rights reserved.

Backyard Chorus Line

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A tiny chorus line dressed in green,
the daffodils stood,
posture impeccably straight
as they bordered the backyard garden,
their leaves cupping unopened blooms
waiting in place
to begin their bright show
even as chill winds blew
and snow frosted them white.
A friend suggested that I clip one,
bring it indoors,
put it in water.
It will bloom, she said.
So I slipped one into a vase
in the kitchen window.
Up and out it stretched,
a ruffled center on a star of petals,
a new beginning,
a glad greeting,
a promise of spring.
Then, this week,
the backyard chorus line bloomed,
its dancers in yellow,
faces to the sun,
spreading their arms,
nodding their heads,
keeping the promise,
announcing the joy of generous Spring
flinging herself wildly across the land,
bringing life out of dead-looking Winter.
She cheers us on with her extravagance,
her rich kaleidoscope of hope-filled messages.
The squares on the calendar say
that Spring is a few weeks away,
but already I hear her song.
Even now I see her smile.
-kh-

Nurture peace, cultivate kindness, and carry the calm.

Nature of the week:


Shadow of the week:

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Text and photos © Karyn Henley 2025. All rights reserved.

At the Tail End of Winter

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Joy is the crocus, who
does not wait for spring
but will push her way up
even through snow
to wake the world.
Fresh and new,
her purple peeks through
undaunted by chill wind,
bright in brown grass,
stretching up as if to say,
“See? Here I am!”
Or rather, “Here we are,”
for she brings sisters with her every year.
They rival the soon-to-come daffodils
and the Lenten roses
to be first to announce
the warm gladness of coming spring
even as the tail end of winter whips by.
Such small blooms,
they can come and go unnoticed.
But for those who watch
for early signs of spring,
the crocus is a generous grace.
She is hope.
She is faithful.
She is bold joy
on a cold day.
-kh-

Nurture peace, cultivate kindness, and carry the calm.

Nature of the week:


Shadow of the week:

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Text and photos © Karyn Henley 2025. All rights reserved.

Lasting the Winter

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Walking back to my house
from my mailbox,
I always look up
to where treetops touch the sky.
Today, I paused to count nests—
seven in different trees—
tucked high in the elbows of bare branches.
I first noticed them when foliage thinned
and leaves fell last fall.
So far, they’ve survived winter winds
and downpours of ice-chilled rain.
I’ve read that most birds
don’t return to last season’s nest.
They build fresh ones.
But I wonder if these old nests
have been a refuge for birds
caught in a cold winter drizzle.
Each seems an obvious oasis,
an inviting island under a field of clouds.
Or stars.
Or a crisp blue frosty sky.
I will not know if the birds return
to these nests,
for the trees will soon leaf out again,
and the nests will be hidden.

I think of those of us who are nesting,
holding space for family,
for friends.
In breezy, balmy seasons of life,
we’re sheltered and hidden and full.
But when branches are bare
and icy winds howl,
when darkness comes early
and stays late,
it’s then that we can look around and see
that we’re not the only tender woven safe space.
All along, there’s been another nearby,
and another,
and another.
Stay safe, nests and nesters.
Hold life and love and hope.
Stay strong through the winter winds.
Spring will come.
– kh

Nurture peace, cultivate kindness, and carry the calm.

Nature of the week:


Shadow of the week:

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Text and photos © Karyn Henley 2025. All rights reserved.

Painted with Joy

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Last night’s drenching rain has left

the morning air cooler,

peacefully breezy,

the sky flecked with drifts of cloud,

the earth dripping color—

brilliant yellows,

rich greens,

deep reds,

velvety blues—

a fresh day of spacious,

gracious spring

painted with the joy of re-creation.

A gray cat tiptoes

through regal irises,

around dogwood dressed in wedding white,

between coral azaleas

in a raindrop-sparkled garden.

The world is full of wonder

at its newborn self.

-kh-

Nurture peace, cultivate kindness, and carry the calm.

 

Nature of the week:

Shadow of the week:

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Text and photos © 2024 Karyn Henley. All rights reserved.

No Hurry, No Worry

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The elms are late-bloomers.

Maples, redbuds, tulip poplars,

even grandfather hackberry

show off their spring green leaves.

But the elms,

one in each corner of my back yard,

are still asleep.

My young neighbor says,

“I think they are dead.”

I squint and study the elms,

look them up and down

as if he might be right,

but I know he’s not.

Silhouetted against the morning sky,

their upreaching branches bear bumps of

leaves-to-be

and the faint sheen of

newborn green.

My elms bide their time.

No hurry.

No worry.

I imagine that’s their mantra,

their peaceful way of entering spring,

stretching and yawning,

catching a few more drowsy minutes.

These elms have seen seasons come and go

for at least as long as I have,

and they know the deep joy of

lingering

a moment

longer.

They know the deep peace of

unhurried progress,

the contentment of

being a

late bloomer.

– kh –

 

Nurture peace, cultivate kindness, and carry the calm.

 

Nature of the week:

Shadow of the week:

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Text and photos © 2024 Karyn Henley. All rights reserved.

If I Take the Hint

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As I stepped outside,

a swirl of white petals—cherry blossoms—

floated down like snowflakes,

settled silently at my feet.

My yard has no cherry trees,

but a neighbor’s yard does,

and the wind has lifted them,

drifted them,

gifted them to me,

celebrating the world reborn.

So many of Spring’s gifts are small—

a yard carpeted in violets,

forsythia gone wild with yellow blooms,

shadows of breeze-blown trees

rippling like creek water in dawn’s lemony light.

But truly, I see the world reborn

any time I pause,

from reliving

or preliving

and begin, instead, just living,

noticing the moment—

for a moment—

which is all I can manage

most of the time.

But Nature has a way of nudging me into

the Now—

white petals flutter past,

shadows ripple in lemon light,

long-limbed forsythia waves in the wind.

If I take the hint,

I am also reborn,

and each step I take

can be

the first.

– kh –

 

Nurture peace, cultivate kindness, and carry the calm.

 

Nature of the week:

Shadow of the week:

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Text and photos © 2024 Karyn Henley. All rights reserved.

A Whisper of Spring

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March, so the saying goes,

comes in like a lion,

out like a lamb.

But it was February that left

roaring,

all in a rush of wind and rain

leaving deck chairs toppled,

branches snapped,

daffodils bowed,

twigs scattered across the lawn.

February was in a hurry

to leave,

and lamb-like,

March has tiptoed in

with silver-gray clouds,

a shy sun

and a spritz of bright yellow forsythia.

Winter has thinned,

and a full-bodied Spring is

peeping in,

seeping in,

reaching out

to hug the world with warmth.

Winter will have a few last words,

but Spring is whispering her arrival,

and I’m listening,

watching,

catching her scent,

feeling her breezy touch.

Hello, March.

– kh –

 

Nurture peace, cultivate kindness, and carry the calm.

 

Nature of the week:

Shadow of the week:

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Text and photos © 2024 Karyn Henley. All rights reserved.

The In-Between Times

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I woke to birdsong this morning,

a good-morning melody

welcoming the silver-gray light

weaving through the clouds and soft rain

of these in-between days

that bridge winter and spring

and seem so random—

today frosty, possible snow,

tomorrow warm, a hug of sunshine.

New blooms have appeared

on the neighbor’s hellebore,

Lenten roses right on time.

Purple crocuses have smiled open

under the magnolia,

a bit of yellow peeks from a drift of daffodils

under the hackberry,

all cheering me

in these between times.

And truly, we are always in between—

between starting and finishing,

between losing and finding,

between our last step and our next step.

Isn’t it the same with people as with nature?

There are those who bloom

in the in-between times,

those who are our crocuses,

our daffodils,

our Lenten roses,

whose mere presence is a sign of hope,

good cheer,

encouragement

in between the loss of what was

and the uncertainty of what will be,

those who ground us in the present moment

of the in-between.

Thank God for our crocuses,

our daffodils,

our Lenten roses.

Thank God for our in-between friends.

–kh–

Nurture peace, cultivate kindness, and carry the calm.

Nature of the week:

Shadow of the week:

If you want me to send these thoughts to your email each Sunday, simply sign up on the right.

Text and photos © 2024 Karyn Henley. All rights reserved.