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Spring is fleeting. Here’s why that matters more as we age.
An exploration of what it means to be a passerby while cherishing life and remembering loved ones in the springtime.
By Walter Hesford | FāVS News Columnist
Ever since I read the Gospel of Thomas, I’ve pondered its 42nd saying: “Be passers-by.” This is considered by many scholars to be an authentic saying of Jesus, but how could this be when in the parable of the Good Samaritan (Luke 10:25-37), those who pass by the wounded fellow in the ditch on the road to Jericho are harshly judged?
Some scholars suggest that what Jesus meant is that we should pass by what the world offers since we are but pilgrims here, heading toward eternity. Others suggest Jesus simply wants us to be wanderers, observing whomever and whatever passes us by.
Ever since I moved to our retirement home, I’ve pondered those passing by our front door.
I doubt the hosts of elderly strollers, middle-aged dog walkers, teen-aged joggers and children on bikes or walking to nearby schools — burdened by backpacks — have a clue that someone is watching and admiring them.
Maybe envying them too, envying their mobility as they pass by. Should I invite them in? Am I also feeling that life is passing me by?
Ever since the coming of this spring, I’ve pondered its phenomenal fragile beauty. I love the yellow green shoots of the willows, the burgundy osiers by Paradise Creek, the pink and white blossoms of the dwarf red leaf and cherry rubbing against our dining room window.
Why spring brings both joy and grief
Spring brings joy, but also sadness as it may prompt us to think of dear ones who have passed, who are no longer with us to enjoy its sounds and sights.
In “A Spring Day at the Farm,” Wang Wei, an eighth century Chinese painter and poet, offers a poignant account of how our thoughts can turn in this season:
“Pigeons coo on the roof, apricot orchards bloom white at the edge of town.
The farmers are out with axes pruning the mulberry trees, hoeing watercourses.
Swallows hunt up old nests, old men sit in the sun, almanacs on their laps.
I have forgotten my glass of wine, thinking of lost friends, dead friends, in a blaze of pain.”
Who are you thinking of this spring?
Spring itself will pass. All too soon we will be hiding from the sun rather than sitting in it. All too soon the pastels of trees in spring will give way to the deep greens of summer, and we will welcome their shade. Blossoms will become fruit, then seeds falling to the ground.
How many more springs will pass me by before I pass on? I better take the time to observe and cherish this one.
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