In the Spring, magic happens outside my bedroom window. A wren builds her nest in a blackthorn tree beyond and teaches her fledglings to fly from my window sill. She launches herself off then turns, and flapping her wings furiously, hovers in front of her babies chattering at them ten to the dozen as if to say ”Breathe in and jump! Take a leap of faith! Look, your mother is doing it!” and these tiny little birds, lined up along the window ledge, flutter their even tinier wings, screw up their courage and launch themselves into space…

 

I love lying in bed when it is raining outside. I am snuggled under the covers, warm and safe, and the world beyond my window sounds so unremittingly cold. The percussion of the raindrops drums a steady, soothing rhythm in my head and in my heart. It is as if a lover were marching her fingers down my spine to an exquisitely slow beat. And although it is divine torture and I confess that I love the mere thought of it, it is as if I can feel the long, hard slide of the rain on my flesh and it makes me shiver involuntarily…