Romance Novels and Spring Flowers

I received a parcel of romance novels from a friend for my birthday--my birthday is this weekend, and since I live a grand 4.5 hours away from any of my very close friends, she was kind enough to visit and present me with an early birthday gift. The gift itself was nothing short of lovely. I admit I am a sap for romances. She also presented me with some iced tea as well, of which I'm sure I'll enjoy.

But in receiving these novels, I happened upon an interesting thought;

What is love?

I love something that stops at the last page of a novel, or something that continues onward, forever, incessantly.

I took a walk this morning amongst the hills and trees beyond the borders of campus. It was cold, but the birds sang regardless. Shoots of plants were beginning to peek from between the sodden layer of dead turf and leaves. There was snow in the air, but these poor flowers, and these shrill, beautiful birds, went on with their lives as if the cold was not an object. And what could they have done against the wind? What say had they in the turning of the world and the steely embrace of time? Nothing. They may whisper amongst themselves. They grow through the sleet and hale. They sing though wind robs their throats of audible tones.

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Life is just as breezy and unpredictable as the weather. Sometimes we shrink, sometimes we shine.

I am grateful for this, for it is not in calm times that we appreciate those we love, but when things are turbulent, do we appreciate those happy instances all the more.