On this Easter Sunday, it would be easy to pass by the emerging April blooms of a hidden succulent.
But I forced myself to stop, to welcome, to examine nature’s delicate offering outside my desert door.
Though barely visible beneath the eaves of loss and loud proclamations, it is anything but ordinary.
When I feel frayed
and afraid,
on days like these,
I dig deeper,
look closer,
to find beauty
in the corner
of the room.
Maybe this late bloomer
is a natural sign
that what I believe,
what I value most,
what I love,
what I hope for,
still exists on the edges,
beyond the madness,
even if it appears
later than I wish …
even if I have to search
high and low to find it.
Even in June’s furnace, we discover bold unflinching souls.
We thank the universe for its mighty, sun-crafted gifts.
We welcome Sonoran glory in all its extreme permutations.
We vow to slather on sunscreen and don floppy hats.
Our spirits may flag, but our hearty hopes shine.
Mark Johnson Stories 