The land is whispering of springtime. I am surprised and delighted to see brilliant yellow daffodils along the road side, in February. Such a difference from where we came from, a place that teases spring then freezes you until May. We have only been in Alabama six months and are learning the nuances of weather and fauna on our daily walks. 

We walk in silence down the dark gravel road that cuts through the trees, autumn leaves, mosses, and limestone edges. The colors intense against the grey skies between rain showers.

I miss my grandchildren so much that my heart breaks a little more every day being away from them, watching them get bigger by the minute on the phone.

Regret and longing is a vicious duo. 

Then the glowing ribbons of moss call me back to the forest. The stream laughs as it rolls over stones. I smile with it. One can almost see the fairies dancing along the edges. My grandmother would have loved it here.

This place abounds with light and pulse, and is filled with the adventure and experiences we were seeking. Everything is turning a vibrant green and I wonder when the giant trees will release their new leaves into space and fill the forest with emerald enchantment.

The air is filled with birdsong. A cacophony of jungle-like sound, singing to my spirit. Of life. We pass a decomposing fawn on the side of the road. Her glazed eyes gazing into the next realm, her body near picked clean from the vultures. How quickly we slide into death. 

We gather wisdom from the things that made us tired. We reclaim our health and our faith. We walk under canopies of hope and wonder and bring forth the joy we have tucked away. On a rainy day in winter along edges of moss and the bursting of new life, of promises of new beginnings, of gratitude and daffodils that push through red soil to start again, I take a breath.