An Easter Basket of Word Gifts

Philadelphia

I take Easter seriously. Always have.

And every year, something occurs that lets me practice the whole metaphor of Holy Week--the notion of re-birth--but not without letting go of the old, doing some desert time, shivering in the cold, dark winter of life.

But it always creeps up on me. That is to say, I don't plan it. I don't say: Gee, MC, it's Holy Week. Let's see. What can you do to make the Christian metaphor live in you?

No. That would be too simple. In fact, I don't even attend liturgies these days. I've come to the realization that I am free to find whatever spiritual avenues will lead me toward a deeper spirituality. And for me, for right now, it isn't usually found within a physical church building.

One year, I was traveling in Tuscany. I had been with some friends, but went off to Tuscany myself, then we were to meet up again in Rome on Sunday--Easter Sunday. I did Firenze, of course, and the hill towns. And I stopped in Assisi on Thursday--Holy Thursday. I was so moved by the drama and power of the rituals, developed over centuries that I stayed two extra days, through the Easter Vigil.

I walked in processions up and down the sometimes daunting streets of the walled village with leather-skinned, thin, old Italian women dressed in black at the front of the line, their canes steadying their steps. They would chant "Dolor, Senor" as they walked from the massive cathedral that houses Giotto's images of Francis to Santa Chiara, the church dedicated to Clare.


I stayed for three days, meeting people from all over the world. Some were there on pilgrimage, some non-Christians, were there to witness the ceremony respectfully. Some told me they came back year after year because the devotion and pageantry spoke so clearly to them.

This year, my surgery provided the metaphor. Like it or not, I have had to spend the past three weeks quietly, letting go of expectations of my recovery ( way too ambitious ), and hunker down to my body's rhythm, not my mind's willfulness.

So, it was another Easter vigil that I hadn't expected with all the fodder to go with it: desert/country time; letting go; the cold, dark reality of what is, not what I want.

As a result of my body demanding recovery time, I've had a lot of time to read. So, my Easter gift to you, dear readers, is the snippets below that have helped restore me during this time.


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Across the broad continent of a woman's life falls the shadow of a sword.

On one side of the sword there lies convention and tradition and order, where all is correct.

But on the other side of that sword--
if you're crazy enough to cross it and choose life that doesn't not follow convention--
all is confusion.

Nothing follows a regular course.

Crossing the shadow may bring a far more interesting existence to a woman,
but you can bet it will also be more perilous.

---Virginia Wolff

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I shall keep singing!
Birds will pass me
On their way to Yellower Climes--Each--with a Robin's expectation--
I--with my Redbreast--
And my Rhymes--

Late--when I take my place in summer--
But--I shall bring a fuller tune--
Vespers--are sweeter than Matins--Signor--
Morning--only the seed of Noon--

---Emily Dickinson