It’s Easter, and I’m aware that I’m supposed to be thinking about new life. Or at least life again.
So I sit on my stoop with the birds and the flowering street trees, the tulips past their prime, all the light green almost-leaves against the evening clouds.
A hawk comes by, catching and clenching another creature, flailing, and proceeds to devour it on top of the street light in front of me against the pristine streetscape.
What sustains life is not always pretty, it says. Fair point, hawk. But that’s awfully close to 1990s Disney wisdom.
I have seeds sprouting and surprise garden volunteers. I even have bunnies.
But the new life that resonates right now looks more like my slowly developing sourdough starter than a bulb garden. Easter 2020: a pasty, bubbling, slightly smelly tub of goo.
Let there be...
