I stand convinced that nothing exists so beautifully as one single blossom amidst hills of snow. For rooted within us all is a passion, a passion for beauty, warmth, and love: A hopeful passion, youthful and trusting.
Yet apart from the somber hum of winter’s lament, the sweetness of spring’s melody would drown in seas of despondent expectation. For a gift bestowed upon one most undeserving is greatly treasured, but a gift given to anticipation grows ordinarily familiar.
The rays of a spring sunrise would seem less dazzling–less brilliant–if the sky had not first been darkened with winter’s fog; for, in order to appreciate the sun, one must first realize the moon.
The thrill of spring’s arrival is, of course, due in part to its hospitable glow—the friendly tunes of a nearby robin, the richness of tulips amidst the field, and the whistling carol of a sweet breeze. Yet, would such a glow gleam as brightly if the eye had not first seen it stifled?
To rightly treasure truth, one must first despise deceit.
To understand true love and care, one must first endure pain.
To prize precious freedom, one must first taste slavery’s sting.
To be fully found, one must first become lost.
For what value is a key to an open door?
h e a r t- o f - t h e- m a t t e r 