I was raised in a Christian-ish (serious emphasis on the “-ish”) household. When I was younger (much much younger; I dropped out of Sunday school after a couple months, and later chose not to become a member of the church.), Easter meant breakfast in the church basement. It meant drinking orange juice out of paper Dixie cups surrounded by strange-smelling, unfamiliar older women. Mostly, though, Easter meant spring. I was more excited about robins and crocuses and bees than I was about the holiday itself.
I am not saying that I don’t respect the religious aspect of the holiday. I do, on some level. I’m not going to deny the significance of Christian belief just because it’s not a part of my life. I respect those people who contentedly, quietly (peacefully) practice whatever religion they believe in. Totally. I find it all pretty fascinating, so long as we all play nice. But for me, bees and crocuses and robins are enough, and have always been enough. It’s enough that we collectively survived a New England winter and came out better and brighter on the other side. We can hose the mud off our boots, assuming the hose isn’t cracked from being left out all season, and maybe even put the boots away.
It’s enough that the earth keeps turning and the seasons keep changing and that the sun is hitting just the right spot in my tiny little corner of existence to keep my feet warm and make my seedlings grow a little.
I must be two or three years old in this photo with my father. I’m sulking because I got scolded for playing in the road (or some dumb thing that kids tend to do with sugar running through their veins).