Can’t explain it, just not feelin’ it (Easter). Or feeling it, but in all the wrong places…remembering dying eggs with my mom. Will never do that again–haven’t for 15 years. Hiding baskets with little plastic toys from CVS for Noah. That one year–he was four–when he confessed to looking out the window to see where I was hiding things in the yard. That’ll never happen again. Easter Past Writ Large. Which is stupid because all around me there are so many beautiful signs of life blooming.
Holidays do this to me…they highlight the past, the lost, ghosts.
So which came first–chicken or egg? Depression because I’m thinking about the past? Or already kind of depressed, and that chicken leads to the egg of the past? Wait. Should depression be represented by a chicken? The past by an egg? No! Egg=renewal. Chicken=”spring chicken,” something to grill, something that is a bird but doesn’t really fly. Now *that* works; depression is definitely the opposite of flying.
Well, here’s how my Easter went: I pulled myself out of the Slough of Spring Despond and went to pick up Noah. He was wearing a bunny shirt.
That tweaked my Easter Angst. Then he assembled the chair that Elizabeth so generously bought me some weeks ago, that I hadn’t been able to put together. (Ok, I didn’t even try.)
Then he filled my Scottster (bike) tires with air.
Then we walked around Beverly Hills and looked at people in their “Sunday Best.” Everyone seemed ready for Ascension. Or Fire and Brimstone? Something. Noah practiced his new monologue. I felt the cobwebs in my brain become less gluey, the anvil in my heart lighten.
Drove Noah back to his apartment and then went to Natasha’s. Her good cheer is infectious, and it’s not even annoying. Which can be annoying.
We made some LA eggs–pretty, happy, almost wearable, distinctly inedible.
Then it was ok to come back to my little place; Easter was over. Gabby, the lovely 85-year old woman who lives down the hall, called out, “Happy Easter, Kirsten!” I waved to her. She wears lipstick every day.
I should have gone to church this weekend. Or, last week I could have held a Passover Seder. (Noah knows the prayers!) Neither ceremony was a tradition with which I was raised (vehemently secular family). But ritual frames the time of year, the history, the astronomical/spiritual moment with meaning. Just choose, Kirsten, one of the above! (Double entendre intended.)
Next year: an egg hunt? A face lift? A trip to Jerusalem?
At least some prayer. Oh. I can do that right now. Thank heavens.
So here’s to honoring the egg of the now, and the next, Dear Reader!
lostandlaughinginla 
Yep, I feel that lost, ghost, thing too at holiday time. Love the eggs!
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Thank you!
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Taking a holiday from the holiday is something I’ve kept a secret to myself, but your essay tapped into that. I slept until 10:30 am on Easter Sunday. Ate a bagel with ham and swiss, alone. Didn’t think about my mom’s angel pie, much.
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Much. Like the holiday from holiday idea.
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Holidays do the same to me, highlight the past, open old wounds. Sorry your day was so hard. I find it helpful both to make space for the pain and do soothing things for myself. I don’t celebrate Passover at all because of the old pain. Sometimes I try to create new memories by doing things totally unrelated to the holiday. Hugs to you Kirsten.
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New memories, yes!
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Holidays do highlight the past. But let’s cheer up.
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On Easter Sunday my wife and I were home alone and both my grown kids were off doing their thing with their partner’s families. My thoughts drifted back to Easter’s past when my grandparents held feasts of Bacchanalian proportions not only on Easter Sunday but on Good Friday night when fishes from shrimp, squid to baccala (white fish) were served up fried or baked on large hot platters and crusted baking pa. Both feasts included the company of my large Italian families.
This Easter Sunday it was only me, my wife and I. Although it was a gorgeous day of sun and cool breezes, I stayed in the house doing two loads of laundry and helping my handicapped wife take a shower. My only personal rebirth came from drugs and booze. So long Easter bunny and your pal Jesus. Both of you can go and haunt somebody else’s holidaze.
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Some Easter scrooges hanging out with you, I see. I’m one, too. I stayed home and it was a day like any other, but with a slight twinge that I should be doing something special, but there was nothing calling me.
Let’s celebrate the rebirth of you, Kirsten. No need for a special holiday to do that. You’ve been creating a new life since you hit the pavement of LA. And we’re both hatching new eggs with pages, so happy rebirth and new beginnings. I took some selfies with my niece today and realize I could use some fashion lessons from the old lady down the hall from you. She has the spirit.
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This, Elaine, is such a wildly generous response. Thank you. Rebirth. It didn’t even occur to think about Easter that way–at least not in personal terms. YES you and I have both been hatching eggs. (Once a hen, always a hen?) Kudos and happy hatching to you, Elaine. And my friend down the hall sure does have the spirit. We laugh our heads off around the washing machine. When it works.
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Kirsten, I just reread this blog post. I know I’ve already left a comment, but I have to comment again. It is such an awesome piece. I love how you interweave the words with the photos. I think when I first read it I was too much in the pain of the holidays to appreciate just how much wonderful and ironic humor there is here. Love it again!!
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Thank you for re-reading and commenting, Audrey!
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