There comes a moment. Perhaps on a neighborhood walk, you realize it is warm enough to pull up your jacket sleeves and turn your face to the sun. Or one evening under a luminous moon with water a mirror for the heavens, when peepers come roaring to life, and you know a little slice of the universe has dislodged. Or one morning, sitting in a sunny patch of your worn out sofa and looking across the front lawn you see hues of green, where yesterday was only brown and mid-March frozen. Maybe it was last Tuesday with the flip of a page, a new month and a new view, what was has lost its grip - just a bit, just enough - to let in a new you. Once I felt it in a stained glass church, with voices lifted high, and I soared like glorious freedom. Once I felt it on a concrete bench, with a child sick and I sat, grounded, like laborious love. When this moment comes, and whispers to you: don’t shut it out, too small to notice. Don’t grip it with a fist, for you risk smothering it. Open-handed, open-hearted, let it speak. And do not be surprised, on your neighborhood walk or in a sunny patch, or in your kitchen as you mark the days while bread rises, or in a church or on a bus stop bench, do not be surprised if you hear it say: The world is greener now than yesterday. For this same power that pushes up blades, extends the sun's rays, pulls the months forward, lifts up into freedom and holds the sick in love, this power is at work within you too. Something beautiful is coming.