I keep forgetting how big Easter is in Flint. The first three spots I aimed for on my early afternoon rounds were closed, the streets almost deserted. Odd to think of all the church hoopla going on in various bedecked sanctuaries as I putter along up and down Court and Center in my trusty old Honda: song, flowers and scripture ("Up from the Grave He Arose" used to be my favorite). I liked the sunrise service on Easter Sunday as well: the break in routine, the novelty of getting up before dark for various theatrical and often endearing rituals of resurrection. An exuberant day in the church, to be sure. These, for me, are memories of childhood. The way it is now: alone all day, happy to be peripheral to this Big Moment, theologically speaking. I'm at home with my longstanding retreat from zeal.
So, Adult Easter 2008: writing for several hours. A meandering walk, the crisp air and sky in late afternoon more like Thanksgiving than Easter. Quiet dinner of chicken, salad and a crisp apple. Two phone chats with my husband, who says it's 80 in LA. Long talk with my sister on the phone. The latest episode of "John Adams" on HBO -- excellent. Poor John Adams just didn't cotton to those French. Ben Franklin playing chess in a bathtub with the comtessa. Abigail, meanwhile, plowing, planting and furiously cleaning window panes at midnight, furiously lonely for John Adams. Paul Giamatti and Laura Linney are great, as is Tom Wilkinson as the worldly and infuriating Franklin.
A renewing day, even without the banks of lilies, chocolate rabbits and hard boiled eggs.
The soft or shrill voice within us
7 years ago