Beautiful World of Mine (Eliza Gilkyson)

Today is Easter Sunday.  I am not necessarily a proponent of the religious aspect, but I do appreciate the metaphor of rebirth, renewal, and resurrection... a bit odd in that this virus has most of us in hibernation mode, and our Spring may not come until late-summer.

However, rituals are touchstones and our sweet Sarah is embracing the holiday, especially because Colin is at an age to really appreciate.  Yesterday they dyed eggs, she put together an Easter basket for him, and she even made a bunny cake, traditional in our family for decades, beginning with my mom, segueing to me, and now Sarah.  My mom would actually pluck straws from her broom for the whiskers, I used bamboo skewers, and Sarah creatively came up with licorice Twizzlers.  Would have loved to be the proverbial fly on the wall when Colin first saw it!

They, and the boys, will come over about 10 am, and we will do a social distancing egg hunt, followed by bubbles (blowing as well as popping!), playing on the golf course green (which Colin thinks is his own private sandbox), and using sticks to draw in the sandy path.

Not bad for Plan Q...  :-)

P.S.  A few hours after I initially posted.  Our kiddo with his basket of eggs.  HEART!!!

SONG:  Beautiful World of Mine by Eliza Gilkyson

BOOK:  A New Beginning: Celebrating the Spring Equinox by Wendy Pfeffer, Linda Bleck (Illustrator)

POEM:  The Way Wings Should by Rumi

What will
our children do in the morning?
Will they wake with their hearts wanting to play,
the way wings
should?

Will they have dreamed the needed flights and gathered
the strength from the planets that all men and women need to balance
the wonderful charms of
the earth

so that her power and beauty does not make us forget our own?

I know all about the ways of the heart - how it wants to be alive.

Love so needs to love
that it will endure almost anything, even abuse,
just to flicker for a moment. But the sky's mouth is kind,
its song will never hurt you, for I
sing those words.

What will our children do in the morning
if they do not see us
fly?

QUOTE:  "The care of the Earth is our most ancient and most worthy, and after all our most pleasing responsibility. To cherish what remains of it and to foster its renewal is our only hope." ~ Wendell Berry

God is Alive/Magic is Afoot (Buffy Sainte-Marie/Leonard Cohen)

Feeling a bit more quietly reflective today - it's Sunday (enough said... :-)

SONG: God is Alive/Magic is Afoot by Buffy Sainte-Marie and Leonard Cohen

BOOK: Practical Magic by Alice Hoffman

POEM: In the Park by Maxine Kumin

You have forty-nine days between
death and rebirth if you're a Buddhist.
Even the smallest soul could swim
the English Channel in that time
or climb, like a ten-month-old child,
every step of the Washington Monument
to travel across, up, down, over or through
–you won't know till you get there which to do.
He laid on me for a few seconds
said Roscoe Black, who lived to tell
about his skirmish with a grizzly bear
in Glacier Park. He laid on me not doing anything. I could feel his heart
beating against my heart.
Never mind lie and lay, the whole world
confuses them. For Roscoe Black you might say
all forty-nine days flew by.

I was raised on the Old Testament.
In it God talks to Moses, Noah,
Samuel, and they answer.
People confer with angels. Certain
animals converse with humans.
It's a simple world, full of crossovers.
Heaven's an airy Somewhere, and God
has a nasty temper when provoked,
but if there is a Hell, little is made of it.
No longtailed Devil, no eternal fire,

and no choosing what to come back as.
When the grizzly bear appears, he lies/lays down
on atheist and zealot. In the pitch-dark
each of us waits for him in Glacier Park.

QUOTE: "When, however, one reads of a witch being ducked, of a woman possessed by devils, of a wise woman selling herbs, or even a very remarkable man who had a mother, then I think we are on the track of a lost novelist, a suppressed poet. . . indeed, I would venture to guess that Anon, who wrote so many poems without signing them, was often a woman." ~ Virginia Woolf