Happy Easter to everyone!
These spring festivals are dear to me because they recall to me the strangeness of spring.
In the climates in which I have always lived, Easter falls squarely in the still-ugly and sometimes even still-wintery bits of early spring. So the celebration for us doesn't figure as a display of gratitude for the return of flowerbuds and frogs and life, but instead an exhuberant calling-forth of those things.
It's a kind of mad hope, on a perfectly brown, budless, blustery day to paint everything in pastels and sing our way toward a lightness of heart that nothing in the non-human world is calibrated to inspire. This is just the kind of festival that makes a joiner of me. I'm very happy to dress myself incautiously in my paper-thin linen pants, my blushing silk sleevless shirt and white blazer, and forego an color on my cheeks because I know the wind will provide it.
And, of course, to recall Emily's accounting of what we're waiting for:
And Nicodemus' mystery
Receives its annual reply!