I am, again, in awe of the magnolias. They impress, they enchant, they affirm that nature will resurrect itself from the ashes of scraggly twigs and frozen dirt.
Now it is perhaps easier to believe the other resurrection, the singular and unwitnessed act on which Christianity revolves like an illusory spinning top. The resurrection that put one above all, which in turn begat the writhing ladder of interpreters, climbing on top of each other to better talk down to the rest of us. Now, in the fullness of spring, it’s difficult to understand why a large part of humanity has chosen to embrace a god so uninterested in communicating intelligibly with its creation.
Nevertheless, the momentum of this fecund spring feeds our thirst for immortality as we suspend our disbelief; for a moment we entertain the possibility of the one resurrection which is the blueprint of our own salvation. The return to the zenith of our corporeal being, to the sum total of our wisdom.
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