An earthquake just shook Taiwan; it appears to not be devastating, catastrophic like the one in Haiti in January.

The hits keep coming.

Miranda Lambert's song "House That Built Me" has officially turned me to country music.  It's lied dormant for years and is finally set free.  The best friend and mother love it.  Now the boyfriend is constantly tuned in.  I knew I was goner when I heard "Johnny and June" for the first time.  A 'new to me' song by Heidi Newfield was exactly what I've been searching for though these rocky and shifting times.

These past few months have been incredibly challenging.  Blow after blow after blow after blow; barely enough time to catch your breath before you dodge another right hook.  Miraculously I have managed to find my footing but the ground continues to shake beneath my worn out boots.

The sun came out for the first time yesterday.  The world is slowly waking; the ground is blotchy with snow and the birds have started to call to the sun, welcoming Her back for another season.  For the first time, maybe ever, I can hear their song and share its plight.  I long for Spring.  I have always considered Fall my favorite season: the leaves, the sweaters, the cider, the air.  Fall is the smell of brand new pencils and the fading of summer tans.  The appeal of Spring has been lost on me until now.

Right now female polar bears are leaving dens for the first time in four months.  They have been living in darkness with no food for almost 122 days.  The sun has come out and her cubs, who most likely will not survive their first year on earth, are seeing the world for the first time.  Polar bear cubs are born blind and deaf; they are hearing for the first time, too.  The entire world is new.

Almost immediately the mother and cubs will begin a treacherous journey across miles and miles (and miles and miles) of the Arctic Circle; she and her young must reach the glaciers before they are completely separated from the shoreline if any of them want to live.  They make this trek alone: the male of the species will actually try to kill the cubs.

But for now, there is sun, freedom, and a brave new world for the mother and her cubs.  There is something so incredibly magical about that.  I want connect with that feeling of bliss.  I want to feel the sun warm my face and not worry about the trek set before me.  No melting glaciers for me today: in this moment, I am still.

With each bird's call, with each new bud, with each setting sun, I can feel the world crying in unison, "It's almost here!  It's almost here!  It's almost here!".  Hope electrifies the air.  Hope, anticipation, and joy.

Can you feel it?