Well, it’s holy week, six days to Easter Sunday and the snow
is falling thick and fluffy outside the Green Line. My fingers remembered the
feeling of palms to thread and make crosses and lanyards, but they couldn't remember the form, and I ended up stripping the green leaves to fringe last
night at church.
Culture offers us, thankfully, so many restarts for false
starts. Rosh Hashanah, and if that
doesn’t work out New Year’s Eve, and then ChunJie hot on its heels with the
honey lipped kitchen god ready to absolve you of transgressions between January
and February. Easter, too feels like a kind of New Year, and it brings spring
or spring longings along.
It’s been a useful Lent, grey and thoughtful. It’s strange
how the sacrifices of this season bring so much relief. No need to battle
myself over a chocolate bar, it’s simply not allowed. When I think about
applying the rules for all time, it doesn't seem possible, and it makes Lent
feel precious in the power it brings. That’s what the lovely myths of faith do
for me. As they carve the calendar into seasons, they makes the bites manageable.
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