Resurrection

I remember Easter when I was a kid. Smelly lilies almost overwhelming me in church, long processions, the empty tomb recreated with, I don't know, wire and paper mache. After the doom and gloom of Good Friday and the Stations of the Cross -which I rather liked, but was tiring- Easter was a relief. I remember also the laden table: kielbasa, the huge ham, the festive pastel eggs that I'd colored the day before, all laid out on a sparkling white tablecloth for the priest to bless with his holy water microphone (that's what it looked like). My mom running anxiously to the picture window every minute to see whether the priest's big black Lincoln had pulled in the driveway.
The priest no longer comes to bless the food. I guess we are now trusted to bless it with our own love and presence. Some things are the same, though. We sit down at the table at noon on the dot, rush through our Easter meal, and are done by 12:30. My mother, my aunts, my cousins eating pretty sparsely of all the abundance. This year we drank a nice Prosecco with our meal, though (my influence, I'm afraid. I've had enough Martini & Rossi at holidays to last a lifetime). Then the dishes were done, and everyone left, and I packed up to head to Sparky's. He's sick with flu, first time in twenty years he says, so I brought ham and green beans and sweet potatoes for yet another Easter feast. When I arrived in the hilltowns, still burdened with three feet of snow on the ground, I unloaded the dogs and took them for a pee on the side of the house, where I saw something odd. A porcupine tail, disembodied and lying atop the snow, ripped right off the porcupine. I called the dogs off, not wanting to spend the evening pulling quills or spending millions of dollars for an emergency visit to the vet. Once the dogs were safely stashed in the house, I went out to deal with the tail. Which was beautiful, really, a four inch chunk of black fur covered with shining white quills. And I wondered. Worms can grow themselves back after being chopped in half, salamanders can grow tails after the originals had been lost. What about porcupines? Was there somewhere a porcupine lumbering through the sparkling woods, tailless but unphased, growing a new one, resurrecting a part of itself as it went?
I feel this Spring that part of me has been resurrected in the dark winter nights, the loving, feeling part, slowly growing back after having been chopped at. It is rising with the embryonic crocuses and daffodils under the snow.
So today, write/draw your own Resurrection, actual or representational. I drew the porcupine tail, for instance. What's your porcupine tail, your empty tomb, your crocuses rising from the snow?

Take A Walk

Does it ever happen to you that everything converges? You're thinking of painting your living room red and think that's a unique idea, then you see an interview with your favorite author, and her living room is red. You go to a Tupperware party and the hostess (who is a friend of a friend and you've never before set foot in her house), she has a red living room. Then you see a red living room on the cover of Martha Stewart, and it's all over. Everyone has a red living room. How do you pick up on this stuff, and what does it do with taking a walk? Well, I have been similarly barraged with prompts from the universe to take a walk. Now, I usually take walks. Having dogs means lots of walking. But since I am seeing references to taking walks (recently read Larry McMurtry's great book, Duane's Depressed, which is all about walking. I find walking in every writing book I'm picking up). So I figure, I must be doing it wrong and need to work on my walking. I think what it means is that I am walking and thinking of the next thing too much, mind racing as fast as the dogs are whirling. So, do this exercise with me. Take a walk. Without dogs or children or your mother or husband. Walk slowly. Forget the power walking. Look around. What do you see? Bring a notebook to write it/draw it. Breathe. Then when you are back home, write/draw the whole walk, from Mrs. Motyka sweeping the driveway to the bright ballons on someone's mailbox announcing "It's A Girl!" to the swollen red just budding trees.

OK Is Pretty Darn Good

Again, haven't posted in way too long. Could make numerous excuses. I have no Internet access more than half the time, and am alone so infrequently. But then I have to come to the conclusion that I am a big baby and am just sulking. Happy, but sulking all the same. I want my own house with my own room to write with my own Internet connection. I want to have scads of uninterrupted time to write. I want a house without a television. I want to be famous. What I need is a kick in the butt.
I have to remind myself that I have quite a lot, including the ability to write and teach, a decent amount of time to write and plan my classes, heat, hot water, great dogs, a mom and a Sparky who love me (though not each other), some disposable income to do things like go to writing conferences and buy books. Things are really OK. More than OK. I live a life of luxury and comfort, when I really think about it. So, I am rededicating myself to these pages, just so you know. So I invite you to rededicate yourself, too. We can all go about our business with the knowledge that happiness begins with a recognition of our great blessings, our luxuries and comforts, even if those wouldn't seem so great to others (movie stars, investment bankers, the skinny young woman at the gas station with the long blond hair and DKNY jeans pumping premium into her Mercedes).
So for an exercise today, think of all the things that make OK pretty darn good for you. List them. Choose your favorite and write it/draw it. See you tomorrow.