An Easter Basket Full of Hope and Fields of Anemones

New York

I took this photo in Galilee in early February. Although it was warmer near the Sea of Galilee than in Jerusalem that wasn't saying much. So, I was surprised and happy to find this beautiful wildflower blooming along the roadsides.
Today, two months later, I was looking at my photos of Israel, remembering my time there. And decided that this picture would be perfect for Easter Sunday, for the beginning of Spring. It is the photo of a crown anenome.

But I didn't know anything about this flower. Now I do. And, like most things--the meaning is just perfect for today. This flower, it turns out is endemic to the western part of the Middle East ( basically anywhere there's a chance of green growth ). I had seen it in Turkey, and, even, Roman ruins with the image of this flower used as decoration/borders in temples and archways.

Crown anemone gets its name from the Greek mythological word Anemoi, the wind gods. One of whom, the legendary Zephyrus was the west wind and bringer of light spring and early summer breezes. In ancient Greece wreaths of anemones were used to decorate the altar of the Goddess Venus. Hence the species name coronaria.

Certain sources associate the anemones with the ”Lilies of the field" mentioned in Matthew (6:28).
In Europe during the Middle Ages a wreath of anemone flowers put on a sick person's neck was believed to help him cure.
So, I couldn't have chosen a better image to remind myself of the meaning of this day, this season.


And now, my final Easter gift to all of you, dear readers--a basket full of hope for new beginnings. A time to be inspired, and to inspire; to be loved and to love.

And a special poem from my beloved Emily.


A light exists in spring
Not present on the year
At any other period.
When March is scarcely here

A color stands abroad
On solitary hills
That silence cannot overtake,
But human nature feels.

It waits upon the lawn;
It shows the furthest tree
Upon the furthest slope we know;
It almost speaks to me.

Then, as horizons step,
Or noons report away,
Without the formula of sound,
It passes, and we stay:

A quality of loss
Affecting our content,
As trade had suddenly encroached
Upon a sacrament.

Emily Dickenson