May begins tomorrow. I hesitated to write a blog post about my Easter event from April. I asked Maggie, hoping she’d say, “Blow it off, Mom.” Instead, she replied, “The virus has thrown everyone off. Write it anyway, even if Easter happened weeks ago. If it really bothers you, throw in a reference to the bunnies in our yard last night. Rabbits. Easter. Still timely.” Yeah, I could make it all fit that way. Or I could just tell you what happened on Easter Sunday.
I grew up with a traditional Easter of church, white gloves, baked ham, and basket of candy. The whole pastel show of family traditions.
When the stay-at-home order descended, most of my big plans went astray.
This Easter I pulled weeds.
I was fit to be tied. I take weeds personally. I know they conspire against me in the moonlight, creeping forward and squeezing between stepping stones.
I like shopping for flowers and then digging, watering, mulching, Preening, and sitting down.
Perhaps you’ll remember that rabbits ate almost everything in last year’s garden, leaving even more bare ground for weeds to infiltrate. Did they ever.
After several hours of work, I hauled the unsightly harvest across the yard to our neighbor Rob’s compost pile.
“How are you today, Karen?” he called from the side of his house where he worked.
“Because you’re a nice person, I’ll spare you from listening to me at length. But I hate weeds, Rob. I’m not much of a gardener anyway. My mother loved everything about it. I don’t know how she did it,” I said in exasperation and turned away.
“Don’t think of it like that,” he said patiently. “You do know. You know that it has to be done. It’s the only way. And you get out there and do it. Give yourself credit. Look at all you’ve accomplished over there in that garden since you moved in.” He waved toward the expanse that separates our yards.
I saw his point. Weeds three feet tall strangled the space when we arrived. Little by little we’ve tamed it. I wouldn’t call it anything as exciting as an adventure, but it is a step-by-step journey. Then over his shoulder, I noted his decorated tree, even though his grandchildren wouldn’t hunt eggs under it this year. He and Beth hadn’t let the holiday slip away. They continued.
With kindness, Rob reminded me of what my dad once pointed out–that I couldn’t see the forest for the trees.
Weeds happen. So do rabbits.
So, yes, the Easter Bunny appears every year. Typically he wears a bow tie and offers candy. But pay attention. Sometimes he wears a ball cap and offers encouragement.