The time of Nowruz is so immemorial that stones have lost track. From the Balkan foothills to the highlands of Anatolia and further away to the Taklamakan Desert, to the confines of the ancient empires, each year men have sung of the return of the beautiful days. From generation to generation, despite wars and disasters, they welcome spring and send winter back until the following year.
Equinox, Iranian New Year, Zoroastrian calendar. Sunshine and bird song. Looking upwards to see and listen. Mother nature reminds us how precious it is.
(For this year’s festivals, we’ve had it. We will do something next year. Something heathen with lots of offerings.)