Moving Slower. Still Moving

I am grateful for the way a stingray swims like a wave in a pet store tank, beside Gouldian finches that make my soul pause in shock at their arrogantly stunning colours.

For the piles of vegetables at the Farmer's market in the middle of winter, all gold and brown and orange and scrubbed and sensible.

For the Hollyhock seeds that I will plant when the ground thaws.

For my open window in January as I sit at my desk, smelling spring in the warming air.

And maybe healing doesn't mean not feeling the hurt anymore. Maybe it means not becoming ugly from it.