I haven’t posted in a while. I have been busy with many things—a weekend trip to Montreal with the friend who helped me design this website, procrastinating from the homework for a class on the Old Testament designed for deacon-postulates in the Episcopal church, and struggling with the spiritual memoir I have been trying to write. I have been doing these things while thinking about how Easter came while it still felt like winter, and how, even though it persevered through the cold and darkness to find me, I left it unwritten about. I have been thinking about writing about Easter while abstractly painting it in my heart. And as I think about writing, I feel overwhelmed by a sense of Easter-egg blue.
This is the same blue I took my friend and myself to see in Notre Dame Cathedral in Montreal. There are various shades of it there. We talked in the pews about how much of its variation is caused by varying colors of light. This conversation over blue was similar to ones we had about the blue she and I wanted in my website’s banner. As though it had a life of its own off the screen, the blue we sought after advanced toward and receded from us as we tried to discuss it.
It seemed to me the same blue also appeared when, in the last weeks of Lent, another artist-friend wrote about it in the eulogy for her mother – the blue of larkspur and Mary’s color (she quoted T.S. Eliot). She had encouraged her dying mother to enter “the blue,” she said toward the end of her eulogy, after she spoke of how she and her mother had painted in their last weeks together. A funeral is an Easter service in the Episcopal Church, even in Lent. At my friend’s mother’s funeral, in listening to how she honored her mother’s creative gift with her own, I found the ability inside of myself to mourn my painting mentor’s death twenty-one years ago. At my friend’s mother’s funeral and at the mention of blue, an Easter that needed to occur in me was finally realized, and I emerged alive from its crack.