Sunday, March 23, 2008

Stained Glass (Danny Schmidt)

Today is Easter Sunday - being a "recovering-Catholic"-turned-UU, I haven't celebrated the holiday in the religious sense in quite a while, but I do appreciate the spiritual tradition of rebirth/renewal/
reawakening (see Thursday's post) as well as the opportunity for loved ones to gather.

We've always had family rituals and those are still in place, albeit tweaked - I used to put out baskets for the kids, filled with candy and a book, stuffed animal or toy. As they got older, the chocolate remained and the treat morphed into a CD or DVD - now that they're "grown", I give each the Ferrero Rocher box in the shape of a bunny and a card with $20!

I'm cooking mahi-mahi with mango-peach salsa, wild rice, green bean casserole, squash casserole and croissants and will provide red and white wine - Sarah will bring dessert... and we'll eat on the patio about 2 p.m.-ish (since Rob has to work at 4). It's a shame Eric wasn't able to make it home again so soon after Spring Break, and we'll miss him - I'll boil a dozen and a half eggs, we'll color them sometime during the day and write his name on one... :-)

Please make a point to read the lyrics of today's song - when I first heard Danny's music three years ago, its brilliance was unmistakeable, and drew me in to discover more...

Happy Easter... however you celebrate, whatever your beliefs...

SONG: Stained Glass by Danny Schmidt

BOOK: Easter Everywhere: A Memoir by Darcey Steinke

POEM: The Discipline of Craft, Easter Morning by Judith Harris

No use going hunting for angels,
for a Christ in the tree-mops,
a Moses winding his way up the mount
into the fire of God’s fresh stubble.

There is just a serious rain,
a steady crutch for the air,
colder than any April should be.

I am up to my neck in chores:
the cat needs more food,
my daughter’s clutter piles up like ant hills,
I fold her little sleeves, ghost by ghost.
What melody springs from the heart so well?

These lone trees can’t be dazzled by sun today,
they have such tremors like the Pope’s.
Lost loons pitched into sky folds,
their crusty buds just blinking
as if to test how fierce the light is.

They sag and meander from their stems,
they bleed from transparency.
Needless or hopeless, as overused fountains,
they are my metrics, my fortitude;
plants with lemony grass spigots
that will never go dry.

QUOTE: "Easter is not a time for groping through dusty, musty tomes or tombs to disprove spontaneous generation or even to prove life eternal. It is a day to fan the ashes of dead hope, a day to banish doubts and seek the slopes where the sun is rising, to revel in the faith which transports us out of ourselves and the dead past into the vast and inviting unknown." ~ Author unknown, as quoted in the Lewiston Tribune

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