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.
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