It is Easter. With white dog on this deck in southern Massachusetts, we are alone. Peepers sound sun going down. Chickadees call their last messages of the day. At far edge of large stone yard a stone Buddha in front of swampy stretch. Everyone is at another house for dinner. There were chips and triscuits a a few rolled up slices of ham from brunch and some Swiss cheese. A glass of seltzer and we call it good.
Solitude.
After monastery the loving chaos of small children, attentive parents, grandparents and aunt along with the zealous border collie chasing ball after ball was just enough encouragement to tumble into nap and decline of evening festivities.
A steady breeze erases heat of the day. Bare trees sway up high with falling sun climbing to tops.
What do I say about Easter?
The monks in conferences and homilies pastiched a wide and consistent picture. These are Catholic contemplatives who live the life.
No summary from me.
What stays is the German monk’s rercall of the only line remembered from 3 volume work on John. He quoted Raymond Brown’s writing that the Holy Spirit is the presence of the risen Lord in us.
I think of the Angelus: “And she conceived of the Holy Spirit.”
Time out of time.
The sun has leapt off tops of the trees into formless dispersion -- fading light blown by sea wind into darkening space.
Stone Buddha will stay atop gray rock in motionless meditation through the night.
White dog wonders now that we are back after a week whether he’ll ever eat at normal time again.
Cat crosses back edge of yard, stops once. White dog looks up, disinterested, curls on lawn.
And Christ, they say, has risen.
Peepers resound.
Wind chants through swaying branches.
It is a good day!