Same Old New Beginning
It's the last day of March, Easter Sunday, the end of winter, the beginning of spring. And the absurd Daffodils bloom despite the cold.
Today is the last day of March. At the beginning of the month I turned 59. I celebrated by saying yes to whatever caught my fancy. The epic yes was splurging with a college friend on a whirlwind trip (1 night 2 days!) to Las Vegas to see the last U2 show at The Sphere on my actual birthday and I’m not gonna be cool it was indeed epic—an experience of visual, acoustic, and spiritual ecstasy. We gambled and confirmed we hated it (except for Black Jack!). We ate, drank, and left nothing on the table….I guess that’s the apt metaphor.
I traveled solo to North Carolina to attend a 3 day faith arts conference where I met with poets, filmmakers, authors, and musicians. I commissioned an impromptu poem, danced to electronic music, and experienced an old hymn in a new voice.
I took a weekly painting class, taught weekly writing classes, and attended a weekly generative writing group.
I planned a party with a few friends. And then, cancelled it. The yesses were adding up, and so was something else. A low grade anxiety that bubbled up periodically was becoming more of a pest. I realized that an evening with friends I hadn’t seen in a while would require me to don a mask of affable celebration to keep the anxiety off the guest list. And at 59 I no longer had the will to don a mask. Rather than play a persona, I met for dinner with 2 dear friends who tolerated my “moody bitch” complaints.
This holiday weekend the bubbles came back and I spent much of it shut down at home. The lost traditions of church and eggs and baskets and family dinner refused to be ignored. I missed it and could do nothing to recapture it. I felt disconnected from my past and unattached to my present, with little imagination and less hope.
Somehow I mustered energy to put together some Easter treats for my (adult lol) children. I resisted giving in to the despair of unrequited nostalgia. But the despair still had its hooks in me.
I was realizing it was possible to say yes and yes and yes to life and still be depressed.
Good Friday was bad. Holy Saturday was hell. Easter Sunday was, well.
There was a shift. Not exactly an "Easter miracle” but there was subtle shift that quelled the bubbles. It went something like this:
Woke up.
Sun rose.
Made coffee.
Clouds parted.
Peace entered.
Heart opened.
Divided mind, left behind.
Clarity, for the moment.
Dressed for church.
Love texted my kids: “A reminder: Every day offers the possibility of discovery, recovery, renaissance. Love is the energy that makes hope possible. Love you all.”
Put on my coat.
Walked out the door.
And that’s pretty much it. No angel visitation, no earthquake, no guards struck dumb. But a stone was rolled away. And maybe the tomb is less empty, more homey, more familiar.
As if every day isn’t a miraculous rising from the dead, here it is again, the same old story. Resurrection. The same old new beginning all over again. And clarity for now, at least, until the fog rolls in. Remembering that it happens at all, is faith. Waiting for it to pass, is hope. Saying yes, even through the fog, is love.
A reminder:
Every day offers the possibility of discovery, recovery, renaissance.
Love is the energy that makes hope possible.