Morning in America

The day after my birthday, I posted a picture of the rust-besieged plumeria sprouting a new flower stalk, under the headline "Springing Eternal." (You can take a look at it with this link.)

And sure enough, it has sprung, as you can see in this picture. And as I felt in my heart over the weekend, despite any hubbub about Bishop Robsinson or anything else.

After the inaugural concert, I considered taking a salt pill to make up for the tears of joy and wonder I shed: Who would have imagined Little Stevie Wonder, even if not so little after all these years, on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial? Pete Seeger? Queen Latifah? The Washington Gay Men's Chorus?

That doesn't even count Renee Fleming, and that national treasure of a voice.

I had to pull off the road yesterday listening to Rep. John Lewis remember Dr. King on Terry Gross' show. All that madness he endured, and here he was arguing in his quiet way that it was time for gays and lesbians to get equal rights, too.

So I am up early this morning to welcome the sun, the new dawn in so many ways. One that will shine so fully, at long last, after such a long night.

Hope blooms.