April 07, 2012
A quilt of clouds has overtaken the sun, this Saturday afternoon in Maine.
Oddly appropriate for the day before Easter, called Holy Saturday by many across the globe.
It is the day after the Crucifixion, when Jesus was laid in the tomb.
In stark contrast to the joyous resurrection embodied by Easter, this is a day of quietude and somber reflection.
Though I do not consider myself religious as much as spiritual, I find myself impacted by the energy of the occasion.
Following a long solitary run to the Chebeague wharf at the end of Cousins Island, I walked through the estuary woods adjoining my house.
The headphones I had worn for the past two hours removed from my ears, I was privy to scattered birdsong, which served to accent the hush held in place by the trees.
The river moved slowly by.
I was alone.
There was a sense of entombment and peace.
Last year, Holy Saturday (and Easter in its entirety) represented a time of transition in my life.
My marriage disintegrating and our finances uncertain, I felt entombed in an different way: trapped and scared. An inescapable claustrophobic darkness had descended.
Through it all, I shepherded my children. Willing them forward toward the light I knew existed.
This year, the quiet of this Holy day offers a welcome pause.
I have known a death of self, and I have known rebirth.
Following the rebirth, there has been much growth. There has been work. There has been rebuilding.
Today, however, there is a chance to rest and be grateful.
It is a Holy Saturday, indeed.
Chebeague wharf, 2012
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