Purple sky, purple smells, purple prose

late spring

The world is all hyacinths and purple smells, spiritually-coloured cherry blossoms and a waning sun cast against dappled lavender and shell-pink skies.

Water Lilies — The Clouds, Claude Monet, 1903

The heavenly expanse has bloomed a light indigo overhead, whilst the skyline duskiness of lavender and gold envelopes the shingled roofs in a cool glow. It declares the glory of God so sweetly.

Birdsong punctuates the atmosphere—here, there, and gone. Here, there, and gone. They worship their Creator; He Who knows when they fall to the ground, Who sustains their nest-making and egg-laying, Who smiles at their chirps of praise to Him.

A baby cries down the street, so the half-moon sings a soothing lullaby. A solitary star hangs and twinkles in the distance, awaiting its fellows in the heavens. A light breeze kisses the tops of the trees, just so. Gently, tenderly, and exclusively. The branches shudder with thrill under such a caress.

It is I who made the earth and created mankind on it. My own hands stretched out the heavens; I marshalled their starry hosts.¹

All is well. It is well with my soul. The warmth of the waning, setting sun envelopes the body and soothes the mind. How much more the glory of the Lord!

This sun will wax, and then turn cold and red and old, just as it did in Charn. We will one day dance before Him in the land of the living, with no need for a new sun, for He is Light Himself, and from Him warmth and brilliance will be cast in all places, the radiance and beauty of the new heaven and earth dazzling under His glance, His robes, His splendour.

Ash Roberts, 2023

Bless the Lord, O my soul! O Lord my God, you are very great!

You are clothed with splendor and majesty, covering Yourself with light as with a garment, stretching out the heavens like a tent.

He lays the beams of His chambers on the waters; He makes the clouds His chariot; He rides on the wings of the wind…²

It is late spring, and the days lengthen already. It is warmer longer, and more often, and the thrilling promise of summer dances on the threshold. Soon, it will be time for sea, salt air, the cry of gulls, and the mist of the ocean meeting the fog from the heavens and curling around the curves of the coastal foothills. Summers secrets dance in the distance, delights still to be had, rhythmic joys yet to be established.

Or Who enclosed the sea with doors 
When bursting forth, it went out from the womb; 
When I made the cloud its garment 
And thick darkness its swaddling band, 
And I placed boundaries on it 
And set a bolt and doors, 
And I said, “Thus far you shall come, but no farther; 
And here shall your proud waves stop”?

³

If the Lord wills, the hour shall soon arrive wherein I shall marvel at the great piles of the deep, up to here and no more, the foamy waves lapping against the sleek shore.

But in the meantime, the cawing of a crow shatters my meditative silence. The air and generally feeling are so Norman Rockwell-esque, so quintessentially American: the quiet neighbourhood is crowned with scents of cuisines from around the world that waft up from backyards and kitchen windows through the breeze, lightly and gracefully mingling with the clarity of western winds in a warm valley. The sounds of children playing and basketballs thumping off the asphalt and against backboards sweetly bear the essence of untroubled youth. Husbands and wives are taking their daily stroll, enjoying each other and the growing cool of the evening.

It is late spring, and it is well. Sufficient for the day is the trouble thereof. I cultivate satisfaction in the day to day, the moment to moment. I aim to enjoy the here and the now, to not reject the manna, to not live for Friday, or the long weekend of Summer.

from Portrait de la duchesse Anne Murat de Mouchy, Franz Xaver Winterhalter, 1862

Here, and now, it is spring, however dormant it becomes with each passing moment. The air is full of periwinkled promise. There is joy abounding in my soul, even as I continue to sow tears of sorrow over lost friendships. But the Lord is my peace and strength, an ever-present help in sorrow. He makes my path straight and saturates my heart with comfort. He promises that my sown tears will reap with shouts of joy⁴, and I sing now, and will sing then, that He alone is God, the Lord strong and mighty, the Lord of hosts, the King of glory, Blessed be His Name.

And now, the lilac dusk has deepened into damson night. The gentle wind grows chill, the starry hosts begin to bluster forth. The baby down the street has succumbed to the moonsong. The pigeons coo and begin to roost. The fully departed sun rides his chariot in joyful obedience to his Maker, for the other side of our silent planet, awaiting the day when he will be loosed from this journey, and replaced with the Source of all dazzling light.

For there shall be a sowing of peace. The vine shall give its fruit, and the ground shall give its produce, and the heavens shall give their dew. And I will cause the remnant of this people to possess all these things.⁵

1. Isaiah 45:12 (NIV)

2. Psalm 104:1-3 (ESV)

3. Job 38:8-11 (NASB, 95)

4. “Those who sow in tears shall reap with shouts of joy! He who goes out with weeping, bearing the seed for sowing, shall come home with shouts of joy, bringing his sheaves with him!” —Psalm 126:5-6 (ESV)

5. Zechariah 8:12 (ESV)