March 27, 2016

Easter Sunday. Reminiscences of my mother, of the Triangle Shirtwaist Fire, of the Easter Uprising in Dublin, that 100 years gone. My own life goes more than halfway back to it, a remarkable thing to think upon.
   
My own Easter started early, as I was so moved during rehearsal Saturday morning that I could barely sing. Everything seemed right. The Resurrection made better sense than it had in years, the fires of my bivouacs, at least for this time, out. Left the church as happy as if it had really been church. Went to the studio and painted, well, and in the evening, desired to be wrapped in my own thoughts rather to sing the Easter Vigil. R arrived without notice and joined me in my thoughts, and in my arms, and though I can’t speak for him, for a time I was happy, and I thanked the Resurrected one for my happiness. I make all kinds of mistakes a good course in theology might have saved me from.  I expect the dazzle on the moving waters to be a moral force. I expect the rushing wind and the flower-upraising root to behave as a human soul behaves. I worship the uncontainable Glory, and yet expect it to be heedful and just. I am making a mistake there, one so ingrained in my upbringing and my experience that I might need time–even more time than I have dedicated to it heretofore– to rectifying it. What I blame is blameful, but I attach the blame to the wrong Personality. I think. I have to decide whether my Lord is a keeper of accounts or the first light shouting for joy upon the mountains. No, I have decided; I must strive to remember the decision and to rejoice in it. God has gone up with a shout, and the Lord with the sound of the trumpet.
   
The Easter services were grand, and not so grueling as they might have been. F passed out at the 9 o’clock, and left blood on the floor where he hit his head. Dinner with the usuals at Reza’s afterward, a meal with which I still strive hours later. So much to do to prepare for the week that I’m tempted to do nothing at all.