These flags, marking the plain graves of veterans in our local cemetery, seem to me to be like the first bulbs of spring, in a way, pushing through as winter hangs on. They remind us to persevere, and look ahead.
I know, I know, my metaphor does not work perfectly, and yet no metaphor does. Still, today I feel the pricklings of hope, as well as the determination of a New England gardener, to roll up my sleeves and make what I can of a new season. What we sow, we sow on old, ancient, and even dead ground, but, still, what grows there can be glorious.
Last night at dinner, the five of us, who watched the Inauguration in five separate locations, talked first about our reactions to the ceremony itself. And then the talk moved, remarkably, to what we should work on, from the long list of pressing national tasks that clamor for doing.
That Obama’s ethos of work and service reached Jimmy and me, two adults with liberal and even leftist leanings, is no surprise. However, that his message has reached three children, too, is a sign of its power and his tenacity.
I got my shovel out. Gloves are on. Feeling strong. Ready.