______
for Martha and Chris, who still go to Easter
Mass, and whom Martha calls therefore
relics
and for Staf and Annemie, who live in
presently beleaguered Belgium, and
who must, at this time of distress,
need our prayers
having long ago lost track of the Christian
calendar, I only this week found out
Sunday ‘d be Easter, therefore Friday
Good Friday, not that this would much
change my daily routine, but it set me
perusing pertinent art, I knew I could
count on Bach for an oratorio, and sure
opera without sets or costumes, usually
associated with religious services, but
Bach had one for every Sunday and
every Christian feast day
after an instrumental introduction,
reminiscent of Handel, I thought,
lovely adagio, notable for its exquisite
oboe obligato, where the innocence
and purity of that wind defines the
movement
the ceremonial pomp of the earlier
section then returns to include a
chorus expressing triumph, the
realization that the Lamb of God
has returned
but soon enough, Mary, the soprano
of a quartet of singers, each of the
four singing according to their own –
alto, Mary Magdalene, tenor, Simon
Peter, bass, John the Evangelist –
voices, and accompanied by an
utterly transcendental transverse
flute, sings
“My soul, the spice that embalms
you shall no longer be myrrh. Only
a crown of laurels can soothe your
anxious longing.”
and knocks your socks off
this week at market, stuffing my
organic red pepper and a bag of
handcrafted chips, barbecued,
designer, into my bag, at their
express counter, collecting my
coins, my receipt, my change
purse, my wallet, and last but not
least, of course, my self, I sensed
something of mine drop, looked
dutifully around, could find
nothing, wondered, and made to
go
excuse me, sir, I heard behind me,
you dropped something
a little boy, an urchin, blond hair,
blue eyes, right out of Charles
Dickens, I thought, eight maybe,
nine, held out a quarter, apparently
mine
why thank you, I replied, enchanted
and you know what, I asked, I’m
going to give this back to you, and
put the quarter back into his hand
the last time I did something like
that, I saw an angel, I remembered,
thank you, he said back, gleaming
with the maturity of his interaction,
though I’m not sure he wasn’t
himself in fact also a very angel
later I thought I should’ve sent him
for a crème brûlée, a piece of carrot
cake, a pastry, or something, and
berated myself for the paucity of
my recompense
but there is a link to Easter in my
tale, the idea of hope, revival,
regeneration, in the possibility of
goodness reentering the world, a
task inherited by the children, and
whom we must not lead astray
apart from its more traditional
associations, for perhaps the less
observant, people of other creeds
and faiths, if Easter means anything
still, or has ever, it is about just that,
hope, revival, regeneration, nor must
we ourselves betray those ideals
happy Easter
Richard
Richibi's Weblog 