Easter morning began with me gazing upward into the outstretched branches of my ash tree. There, birds perched and darted amongst its delicate spring leaves. The song of the mourning doves cascaded down from the sky.
In my kitchen were the components of our holiday dinner- bubbling bread starter, chilled cookie dough and a few colored eggs to honor my childhood memories. Close at hand was the fresh lettuce I would gather later in the afternoon, a mixture of baby greens that resulted from my earlier springtime enthusiasms; and in my studio rested my most recent homage to the spiritual icon of this day, awaiting my attention.
This holiday, for me, has always been a strange comingling of the pastels of Easter and the ebony of Good Friday- an art piece formed . . . gleaned . . . from broad strokes of imperceptible hope.