The sun. The quiet whispers of the sun, the sky that lightens in anticipation, before it is quite ready to rise. Harsh and searing, penetrating sun glasses and not high enough in the sky, yet, for the visor. Distant, but intentional; yellow and cool and preparing for spring. Glorious and valiant as it sets, trying to get the last word in over the night by scattering rays into the clouds.
Air, oddly warm, begging for deep breaths, filling one's lungs
to the point of satisfaction. Snow, melted by the sun, that smells something like rain.
The generosity of strangers, sending newspaper pages, multiple postcards, and detailed information for the benefit of myself and my Kinders.
A forest of icicles hanging, hidden, in a pine bush. They glimmer in the sun, fragile and resolved.
Smells so thick and remembered that you can taste them and that you could almost fill up on them. And then the flavors themselves, dancing and settling at the same time.
Worshiping the creator, rather than created things, by acknowledging the creator. Notice what God has created, what good things he has given you, and thank him. That is one aspect of worship.
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