I love Easter. I love the word, "Easter," the echo of "eastern" that it hints at, the connotation of sunrise and newness. I love how ungainly it sounds, and how earnest.
I've just returned from my church service at Cornerstone OPC. Today is colder than yesterday or the day before, and I'm less tempted to hike about in the sunshine, as glinting and joyous as it is. If I were home, I'd be at Oma's house, a mug of coffee cupped against my palms, listening to the aunts and uncles chatter. I'd also have trudged over there in knee-deep drifts of snow. I'm happy to be here.
Last Easter I was in Salzburg, traipsing through the Sound of Music gardens, stretching out on the banks of a Danube tributary, photographing the castle and the spectular views, revelling in the bells tolling out over the Franciscan cemetery, or sipping beer at the Italian restaurant.
Tonight will be eventful, though. I'm going to Will and Manda's home, to paint Easter eggs and play games and indulge in homemade treats.
Until then, I think I'll go upstairs and fix a pot of coffee to have with my apple, and perhaps pore over a book (Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrel?) as the afternoon wanes.
He is risen!
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