Thirty-eight years ago, philosopher George Santayana came into a sizable legacy and was able to relinquish his post on the Harvard faculty.
The classroom was packed for his final appearance, and Santayana did himself proud. He was about to conclude his remarks when he caught sight of a forsythia uncurling in a patch of muddy snow outside the window.
He stopped abruptly, picked up his hat, gloves, and walking stick, and made for the door. There he turned. ‘Gentleman,’ he said softly. ‘I shall not be able to finish that sentence. I have just discovered that I have an appointment with April.’
Each flower is an invitation, an appointment with God.
Each song of the bird, and each cloud floating in the sky, is something like a message, a coded message.
You have to decode it, you have to look deep into it, you have to be silent and listen to the message.