Easter celebrations

It's Easter Sunday, which usually means by the time eleven o'clock rolls around, I've sung three church services and am about to sing the fourth. Not this year. With my mother in the hospital, we didn't do the usual crazy Easter morning thing, Church, church, church, Sunday School, church and then an exhausted lunch with my choir and family. It's not everyone's idea of how to celebrate Easter, but it's most definitely mine. God is music, and after forty years of choir membership, church isn't church without singing in the choir.

Once the kids were too old to hunt Eater eggs, our Easter mornings grew much more simple, if four services is your idea of fun. We join the choir for lunch because of our blended family situation. Most Easter weekends, our kids were gone to their other parents. Now that they are grown, we lack firm Easter traditions, a cost of being a blended family.

But this year, I got up before everyone else, went out to check to see what flowers are blooming, and found lots of new irises. Then, I came back in and did half an hour of yoga. This Easter, as nice as my usual tradition is, I'm serene, relaxed and fulfilled. I had my own quiet meditation time and celebrated my own way. Now I'm off to make French toast, bacon, hash browns and tomatoes for brunch.

The menagerie

Chez moi, we have pets. Lots of pets. Three dogs, one cat, one parrot, one gerible, three Bettas in separate aquariums, and two big aquariums of fish. The Shih'tzu is mine, so is one of the Betas, Bob Mojo, to be exact. He sits on my bookshelf by my desk and keeps me company. His predecessor's name was Fred the Fish... Yes, I am very creative. He started off as Bob the  Beta. But knock on wood, he doesn't seem prone to the same fin trouble Fred experienced and may remain with me longer. He is just full of good writing ju ju!  I also feed him a couple of times a day. He was a big boy to start with. Well, now he's hefty. Hence, Bob Mojo the Hefty Betta, giver of good writing ju ju. 

Our cat is elderly. My husband belongs to him. How do I know this? They look alike. Both have long, dense bones and sinewy muscle. Both look taller or longer respectively than they really are because of their excellent bone structure. When one gains weight, the other gains, as well. They are inexplicably linked. The cat comes to me when he needs things, but otherwise, he doesn't have much use for me. 

Then, there's the parrot. He lives in a cage in front of my dining room window. Thanks to him, I have no need for any sort of alarm system. He is  much more reliable. From where he sits, he can see into the kitchen, outside, and in all of my front room. He tells on people and animals when they are doing something he knows they shouldn't, warns me about squirrels and cats in the backyard, or even my own dogs when they go outside.  He believes the refrigerator is a magic portal of some kind. No one can open it without him going off. And he loves the sound of water running. 

When i was younger, I brought home strays. Men, women, animals--stray anything, they came home with me. I think I needed them to feel loved. Then I had kids, and didn't have quite the same need, so slowly the number of strays dwindled. Now that all my children are mostly grown but still living here, our number of pets is really, really large. Frankly, now I can see that need for what it was in the past and wait for the day some of these wonderful creatures go when their owners do! I'll be left with a Shih'Tzu, a cat, one big aquarium, and one small one containing Bob. I might have to get an alarm system, you know?

Beginnings, gardening and writing

Ever held a tiny baby and watched them sleep? Think about it. Remember. Feel them in your arms. Watch them move, watch their sweet, little faces. I can close my eyes and remember when my kids were this age, then my nieces. I remember thinking growing that fast couldn't be comfortable. Like teething, you know? Bones lengthening, muscles developing at the same time can't feel good. Granted, most of that happens as we sleep. 

My youngest never slept well as an infant. Many nights I got to hold him and watch him. I knew, even then those times would be fleeting in the scheme of life, so Itreasured them, savored them, kept them close. I ran around in an exhausted fog, but I knew the time would come I'd get a full night's sleep and miss those moments alone with him in the middle of the night. 

This time of year, right now--the start of spring seems to be the same sort of time for the earth. I can now differentiate the weeds from the plants in those green shoots that appeared in my yard last month. The sun is pretty and clear, but it's still a little chilly in the mornings. You can see and feel the forces of life working so, so hard as first flowers appear. 

This is one of the roses from my backyard. The bush is probably my age. Each year, this big, old rose bush lies dormant through the winter until the earth breathes new life into it. 


Writing is much the same. Characters don't spring full fledged into my imagination; they take root and develop. Yet still, I am tempted to start something new and challenging. I am called to birth new people I've never met and settle into their lives for a while. The only difference is, this is what my rose bush calls a first draft. Mine are never that pretty.

Honor this time of year. Start something new. Make a scrapbook, crochet an afghan, compile a recipe book of all your favorites, plant something, start a new friendship, or a brand new book. This is the time. You can feel it in the air, see it in the new green and in the morning-white rays of the sun.