There is something very appealing about new ideas. New is associated with fresh, with shiny, with clever. New feels like the sun coming up, or the grass turning green.
Well, the sun came up yesterday, too. And this is not the first spring for anyone capable of reading the blog post. New feels good even when it's old. New feels good even when we know - mostly - what to expect from it.
I just came back from a student production at McMaster. All the jokes about sex and death and dysfunctional families were new in the same sense that sunrises and spring flowers are new. Exactly the same sense. They were funny and energizing and silly and hopeful. Even though they were generally the same ideas that every generation of undergraduates discovers and calls their own.
To discover something entirely new would be a real adventure. Real adventures are frequently quite uncomfortable. They involve not knowing what to expect, and not being able to recognize exactly what we have gotten ourselves into. They produce glorious moments - and terrible ones - and a lot of slogging through. There's a lot of pressure in going somewhere entirely new.
Sunrises and crocuses that appear from under the snow are less unexpected. They are both hopeful and comfortable. They have an edge that is more clean than sharp. And they can produce a wonderful sense of possibility, a reminder that we have sometimes woken up and found that the day is better than we expected.
Why not wake up like that tomorrow?