It is still dark, misty-foggy, the velvet sky reminiscent of so many other Florida dawns. Sunrise comes late on the west coast, the day revealing itself slowly. Beyond the wide-open sliding doors: the dull tide of distant traffic, the sibilant chirrups of birds waking. For an hour I’ve been lying in bed, listening to morning sounds, trying to conjure Easter.
Hope, faith, peace. Qualities of mind and heart that are all too elusive these days, whether I am scanning the front page of the newspaper or discussing summer jobs with my two sons.
My husband, the boys, and I are scattered between three states on this spring Sunday. There will be no family pew at church, no crowd around the table, no chocolate bunnies or colored eggs tucked beneath the bushes in the yard. We’ll talk on the phone later, reminisce about the year the crows stole the eggs before the kids got outside, or the time Jack peered out the bathroom window, wiping sleep from his eyes, and realized to his horror that the Easter Bunny was dad. And it will be hard not to mourn what was–my children’s childhoods, our own youth, the passing of all those other Easter mornings, receding now into distant memory.
The sky beyond the bedroom window brightens by degrees, purple to rose shot through with blue as the fog lifts. My mom has put coffee on, Henry sleeps in the room next door. The morning is, of course, it’s own metaphor: light following darkness. And I realize that I can take a cue from that, the familiar cycle of night and day, winter turning to spring, lawns greening after long winter dormancy, the mockingbird returning to the same low bush beneath the window to build her nest of twigs, this eternal process of life, death, rebirth.
I talked with Steve on the phone yesterday; he was busy at our house, changing bed sheets, putting screens in windows, bringing lawn chairs out of storage. “Come home,” he said. “It’s a different world than the one you left.” Three weeks ago he and Jack and I drove to the airport through a snowstorm. When I return this week, it will be to a new season altogether.
And so on this last day here of a long spring break, the last day before Henry heads back to college and I fly back to New Hampshire, I aspire to my own small fresh beginning. The more my life has changed–and changed it has over this last year–the more I have found myself yearning to control the uncontrollable — grown children, my own aging body, a husband’s mood, a friend’s illness, transformed holidays. I’ve directed way too much of my time, energy, love, and attention in the one direction where it is not wanted at the moment, toward a teenaged son determined to do things his way. And in the process, I’ve neglected other things that are truly important to me, not to mention other people in my life who might welcome a bit more of my attention.
It is the not knowing what comes next that makes me afraid, the sense of helplessness I feel when confronted with the morning’s grim headlines, a dear friend’s diagnosis, a son’s poor choice. How much better to remember that uncertainty is always part of the picture, fragility part of our human condition. If not for sadness, there would be no joy. Faith wavers, is tested by adversity, and is thus restored. Darkness, an inevitable part of life, is always followed by light.
“Healing,” as Pema Chodron reminds us, “can be found in the tenderness of pain itself.” On this Easter morning I aspire to a small resurrection of the heart. I will get up in a moment, take a walk with my son, go to brunch and read the New York Times. But the real action will take place on the inside, as I remind myself to open, soften, and take the world in just as it is.
"If not for sadness, there would be no joy. Faith wavers, is tested by adversity, and is thus restored. Darkness, an inevitable part of life, is always followed by light."
A rich and melodic hymn, Katrina. Thank you.
I am at a place in my life where the lessons of Easter that I was taught no longer resonate. This statement does, however: "I aspire to my own small fresh beginning." Thank you for offering an Easter essay that sings to me this afternoon.
The inimitable sounds and sighs of waking up.
Already a reflective day, and now your reflections to ponder. Thank you for this post.
Resurrection is a powerful metaphor. Often the direction in which our lives proceed is not what I would have chosen, if I had been given a multiple-choice scenario. And sometimes the outcomes are not what I would choose either. But sometimes the light that reflects into my heart from that journey is such a powerful lesson that it is startling. I can only hope that I am aware of the lessons in each life experience, Wishing you safe travels home.
Such an insightful post. This is my first visit here and I am struck by the beauty and thoughtfulness of your words. You leave me with much to think about as I flounder through my own journey of self-discovery. I was particularly taken with "it’s not knowing what comes next that makes me afraid." This I know well. Therein lies the meaning of life I suppose, finding ways to live it despite not necessarily knowing what comes next.
This was the last year of the Easter Egg hunt in my house, my youngest just barely able to muster the interest and my older kid patently done with it. While there is so much that is sweet, and birds have built their nest on our front porch… but are freaked out every time we come home or return (and the kids haven’t even hatched); I am all too aware of the fragility of life, the helpless and powerless feelings evoked by diagnoses, and the questions continually intruding upon our own attempts to make goodl nests, hardly thinking any more than the birds about that it may end as an empty tangle of twigs when the vines die back. Still, the birds will be somewhere, doing something, singing something and so, I believe, will our spirits. I hear your bittersweet song and wish you kindred regard, as well as mutual openness to the moment, to community and perhaps even to epiphany as we venture on, each both alone and together in this lucid collective dream.
I love coming home (from Milford NH!) and finding a new post by my friend Katrina. I thought of you so often when we were there, enjoying the sunshine, family, little people….I wondered what your Easter Sunday looked like. And I am glad you had time to capture it, write it all down. Each will change in the coming years, as the boys (and you and Steve) find your paths.
I thought of you also as we left my oldest home, for several reasons, but mainly it was her choice, and when I called her on Easter Sunday to check in I asked how she was doing. She said, "Fine….but I didn’t realize I would be home alone on Easter!!’
When the option had been given to her to ‘stay home while we visit the relatives for Easter’ all she could hear was ‘stay home and have a sleepover with your favorite friends with NO family around!" The reality of a ‘family’ holiday, spent by herself, was a great surprise.
It made me laugh and then want to cry. My poor girl, all alone in our empty house, on EASTER! But it’s all a part of the finding her own path thing, right?
I’m only hoping it makes her crave coming home for holidays once she’s truly off on her own next year…
So great to ‘hear’ from you.
Judy
justonefoot.blogspot.com
The last paragraph here is breathtaking.
"On this Easter morning I aspire to a small resurrection of the heart."
and
"But the real action will take place on the inside, as I remind myself to open, soften, and take the world in just as it is. "
Thank you for this melodic message.
There is something about Easter Sunday that brings me immense comfort, and while each year is filled with new scenarios and players, the peace I find in reflecting on the events of the Triduum renews my sense of hope that all will work out. There IS a plan, and while we may not always know the intimate details, we need to have faith, to accept what is given to us, and to make the best of it. Each year I retrace the steps of my own childhood Easter rituals, and we still hold the annual Easter egg hunt even though the kids are grown. This year, our son invited a friend to join us for our extended family dinner, and to my delight the friend mentioned that our son had told him all about our traditional hunt! While this may seem trite to some, it showed me that things that I thought would fade away in their minds have actually etched themselves as part of my children’s traditions.
I believe that the timing of Easter and Spring is no coincidence. Renewal is all around us, particularly on a gloriously beautiful day where the flowers are blooming far too early for their own good. May your own personal renewal give you strength to handle the everyday ups and downs of life, no matter how great or small they may be.
Your pieces here have been stunning, Katrina.
Love,
Beth
LOVE this, Katrina! "A resurrection of the heart." What a lovely way to put it! xo
Katrina, I come to this a few days after a very busy Easter Sunday, but I am thankful nonetheless for your reminder that we have other personal roads to travel, things to take care of. I often find myself in my few spare moments thinking about my boys away at college and how I wish I could still be offering advice, helping them out. I was lucky in that they came home for Easter, and I did get to offer a word of advice or two (not that they were listening), but after they left, I realize I have many here in my extended family and town who I can help…and there are new places yet for me to explore. Your writing always reminds me that nothing is predictable and all we can do is be open to new experiences and new sights. Thank you again.
Yes, the real action takes place on the inside. So true in so much of life. And I love the word "soften." I remind myself often to "soften my heart" toward others and toward myself.
Lovely.
Katrina –
Yes, it certainly is the “not knowing what comes next” that is so challenging. After reading this true and beautiful piece, I looked up your book, The Gift of an Ordinary Day, on Amazon. You open with a wonderful quote by John Tarrant: Every step in the dark turns out, in the end, to have been on course after all. Thank you for this, as well as for the posting. Your book is already on my Amazon wish list.
Grete
I’ve been meaning to respond to this blog post since Easter. I actually read it on Easter and was quite taken with it — I could so relate to it. This Easter was the first time I did not get to spend it with any of my little family (husband and 3 sons 16-24). I did spend it with my mom, brothers and nephews – but I missed my own little family and traditions of past years – going to church together, coloring eggs, Easter Egg hunt, and of course a special family dinner. But, time passes and things change … 2 of my boys no longer live at home (college and beyond) and the one left doesn’t really want anything to do with me – a painful stage watching him go after his independence. Your words hit so close to home for me:
The more my life has changed–and changed it has over this last year–the more I have found myself yearning to control the uncontrollable — grown children, my own aging body, a husband’s mood, a friend’s illness, transformed holidays. I’ve directed way too much of my time, energy, love, and attention in the one direction where it is not wanted at the moment, toward a teenaged son determined to do things his way. And in the process, I’ve neglected other things that are truly important to me, not to mention other people in my life who might welcome a bit more of my attention.
You have such a way with words – your words really resonated with me that day. On Easter that evening, when I got home to an empty house before my husband … I wanted to find something to keep me busy. Fortunately this past year I’ve been pursuing art more and I’m finding it very rewarding. So…. that evening I took out a reflective blog post that my oldest son wrote earlier this year — and I put together a watercolor journal page depicting his thoughts and photo. This was really an escape for me and it gave me a way to feel connected with my family even though we weren’t "together". In case you’re curious you can check it out on my blog: http://clairessketchbook.blogspot.com/2010/04/coffee-shop-pleasures.html
I’m really enjoying your latest book, The Gift of an Ordinary Day, and I thoroughly enjoyed your earlier book, Mitten Strings for God, years ago when my boys were young. Your words are very thoughtful, thought provoking and comforting. Keep writing!!