Mindful Living: Easter in Vermont

Easter in Vermont may not be much competition to the cherry blossoms of Virginia, but I’m sure the Easter bunny will trot on by anyway, maybe with galoshes on. When I lean out the back porch door, I can smell something delicate and sweet under the mud. That’s spring. That’s Easter.

Historically of course, Easter is about Jesus’ resurrection. But for many Americans, Easter is a cultural holiday, encompassing the best of bunnies, chocolate, and tulips. I’m kind of a hybrid myself, and tend to take the broad view of Easter as a spiritual rebirth, although the whole bunny thing is still close to my heart. Like Peter Rabbit, it seems like any moment now I might get caught munching a few carrots in the neighbor’s vegetable garden.

When I was a kid, Peter and my mom teamed up around Eastertime. Early in the morning when the shadows were long and cool, mom took us out to the woods by the church. We’d lift our heads and smell the lilacs just burst out of the earth. We’d pretend we were bear cubs, and wriggle our backs against the rough bark of redwoods so high we couldn’t see the top. We’d roll over and over in the mattress of pine needles, feeling the crunch and crackle beneath our windbreakers. Mom said that this was what Easter, and God, was about. In my better moments I think she was right.

After a little while we’d brush off the needles and wander back, hand in hand. Easter at this Unitarian-Universalist church was a community breakfast, out on a sunbleached cedar patio. Our pastor spoke to us of the resurrection of love, her head tilted up to the sun and her long white cloak fluttering in the breeze. The audience was hushed, and you could hear the coo of pigeons nearby. It may have been the platter of powdered donuts, but I like to think that God invited them by to share in our community.

If my mind wasn’t entirely on the sermon, it was understandable because when we got home the bunny thing began. Tied to the front door knob was a little note, with instructions on where to find the next. Note after note, clue after clue, we followed them to the end, where the Easter baskets lay. My mom had the art of mystery down, not to mention quite a way with Easter baskets. We always got the requisite chocolate bunny, chocolate malted eggs, and some change at the bottom for good luck. Being something of a renaissance woman, she also included books and music and art. One year I found a copy of Anna Karenina topping the basket. Every spring for a few years I used that book to prop open my backyard window until I was old enough to read it. When I was, it held me in a steely grip until the very last page. I guess mom knew that would happen, even if her timing was a little off.

What was really special was that Mom put attention and care into our baskets, even if the contents leaned a little toward the whimsical. She didn’t just do the bunny thing though, she became a bunny herself, making sure that we got out and about with God and nature. She’s probably up in heaven leaning against a redwood with a good book in her hand.

Even though my mom was a fan of cherry blossoms, I know her spirit is here with me in Vermont each spring helping me locate the dozen purple and pink eggs hidden in the tall rye grass around my back porch.

Copyright December, 1998