This spring, I wanted to write a column about Easter. Not just my usual, seasonal shtick about the chirping birds and the blooming blossoms, but a real, honest-to-goodness Easter column. I know it might be a bad idea, that some eyes will roll and my stock will plummet with the local intelligentsia, but I just can’t help myself. You see, after twenty years of wandering and wondering and fancying myself much smarter than my religious friends and neighbors, I’ve gone back to church. And though it’s not the church I grew up in, or even the same denomination, it’s been like coming home.
“I was so much older then, I’m younger than that now.” These days, I find myself not wanting to sum up parts of my life in the doggerel of ’60s folk rock. Yet sitting in an ancient blue shoe box sits a packet of letters, cards, notes from years I tend to relegate, like the box itself, to some corner shelf of the closet of my mind.
“As humans, we need bright days and dark nights.” Dave Crawford, Executive Director, International Dark-Sky Association You know how, while flying his plane at night in 1999, JFK Jr. got spatial disorientation and took a fatal plunge into the ocean?
I woke up this morning from a nightmarish vision of a man whose unshaven face was frozen in an expression much like the character in Edvard Munch’s The Scream. In my dream, the man could not speak. Instead, his dark, wide eyes stared directly into mine and I realized that the only way I could communicate with this living sculpture was through sight. It would be a very lonely and one-sided conversation.
I recently found a notice in my daughter’s backpack informing me that her elementary school is considering adopting uniforms. Though St. Patrick’s Day was still a few weeks off, I couldn’t help dancing a jig.