The weekend was revitalizing.
I sat around a table full of mostly strangers, and shared the tradition of Passover. Something familiar was made new by the company. Something sacred grew more so.
I sat alone next to an open window with clippings of an old calendar, a gluestick, and scissors and found ways to make something new, placing my creations in small frames that will hang upon my 101-year-old old walls.
I played Easter Bunny in my garden for two young, bright-eyed children whose mother kindly said "Yes" when, on a whim, I asked if I could. Their glee grew mine.
I dug in the fresh dirt of my garden, discovering little gifts as I went - flowers planted last season, names forgotten but beginnings cherished. Even the painful scratch of the rose bush on my bare arm was familiar and somehow comforting.
I happily chopped away at a mound of thyme to produce a loaf of lemon-thyme bread, and then marveled at the joy in making art out of the presentation. A map to wrap the gift to the family who has helped me find my way here in this town: it's only fitting.
I sat around another table full of mostly not-strangers and shared an Easter feast, listening as we each made a vow of renewal for the next thirty days. Our vows: body awareness, trout-fishing, art-making, self-care, less snarky thoughts, slowing down, long walks, body care, acting with intention.
I found a friend waiting for me on my front porch, arriving at the perfect time to take a walk alongside the last bits of sun of the weekend. We discovered many buds and blooms, and many unnoticed, surprises around the well-known streets of our neighborhood.
It was good enough that I found myself less attached to documenting it, and more attached to experiencing it. But I did find a moment to take a few thoughtful pauses.