Reflections on an Easter weekend

Winter seems so deep here, and Summer so furious, hot, buggy, then gone. The Spring crops are planted since 10 days ago, and they have been wise enough not to raise tiny fragile faces to the bluster of a virulent North wind. I picture them hiding under the prescribed thickness of earth, little life curled into fetal position, their tender unclothed backs just sensing the cold creeping in. With energy and timing the seeds were set, and now we all wait. They with undoubtedly more patience and faith than I. The orchard buds know the score, for they too only expose enough of their noses to reassure us of life, and wait for the wind to die down. My garden bed is here in my upstairs room, where I can feel the actual heat of the strengthening sun protected from the gales which slam intermittently against the crack I've left in the North window. I feel my own intention, energy, and timing sunk into the soil, and I too am waiting the moment to sprout, too see the quality of seed I have sown.

It's been a rough weekend, to put it simply. It began really late Thursday night, when I chose to sit down in the new shower, stretch my legs across the still dusty space and cry. Sobs more boulders and rocks than shakes, they came almost dry, as painful unwilling births. The thunderstorm of conflicting thoughts thrashed and crashed under steadily cooling water, and the valiant little water heater next to me clicked on and rumbled. I feel tortured by two minds, or rather, two consciousnesses. One seems to have already decided its fate, the other knows the answer it has proposed is fruitless. I drum up knowledge learned to do battle with the first. But knowledge learned, and not fully experienced and absorbed can do little against that which is so determined, that which has reached the end of its line and can see no other choice. I prayed, and in prayer found myself to be full of fear. Wondering at this, I saw the sadness and anger as mere peevish creepers, thriving in this fertile ground. Afraid, and anguished, frightened to a sort of hysteria, begging the world to stop for fear, and tired, very tired from the panic. In the morning I stayed in bed until 9, and with the support of cats and sunshine, I began a day. Weaker, I moved about tentatively, worked quietly, ate little and frequently. By lunch my breathing was shallow again, and my heart beating too fast. Electricity charged my nerve endings, and walking quickly threatened a faint. I had blown a gasket, the broken heart I allowed to express itself in the shower became the broken heart in my chest. I went back to bed, missed the Memorial for Jesus, I stayed away from dinner with guest. Saturday was more of the same, but better, so that this morning I awoke, dressed, and attended the Easter Worship with almost complete ease.

And pausing before taking the brief and windy walk down to the Hall, I wondered why my thoughts had turned from God to myself these past weeks, and whether that, after all, was the start of the trouble. Ichi go, ichi e, one meeting, one chance is what someone performing the tea ceremony will say to you as you are handed your bowl. Today the saying gained new meaning for me: one meeting with Grace, one chance to grasp onto it before It silently passes by. The holiness and beauty of simplicity can be found in each moment we care to look for it, and in those moments I feel fulfilled. In those moments I move beyond the four walls I have enclosed my consciousness in, and gently peer out the window toward an ancient, perfectly tended garden, and a swift sunrise, and feel joy.