Spring always makes me a little nervous.  In the slow beating heart of winter, spring seems like an impossibility. “Things growing out of the ground? Daft!” Yet it comes every year, and every time, it is a surprise. But it’s almost too much: the sky is too blue, the air too crisp, the buds too delicate. It’s too much life. “My cup overflows.”

The world is born again each spring, relentlessly returns. Rebirth. I wonder if our own rebirth will be as ecstatic. And if it is too much, what then? Can there be too much happiness?

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