This morning’s Writer’s Almanac poem is just unusually shaped poem which fits my current understanding of Holy Saturday, that waiting and wondering through a hard time, searching for mystery and light, resurrection.

I’m listening my way through the day with Lucinda Williams and her friends on Pandora, awaiting the arrival of a two week visitor from Spain and my children, Easter Sunday with extended family tomorrow. Today, though, is a day of quiet and work and solitude.

Midmorning my gal calls, home from a week away with her stepmom and step cousin to Harry Potter World in Florida, only  a few texts from her all week to let me know she is happy and she loves me, but this morning, she wants full on FaceTime, and in spite of her call last night and the reminders on both our e-mails this morning from AT and T that she is nearing her data limit, we Facetime while I wash dishes and she shows me her nail polish and we pick out the sweater and shoes she’ll wear tomorrow, plan the usual basket hiding tradition, to be cleared with her dad, who has never been much for even this secular tradition of Easter.

For the first time in many years I didn’t color eggs. I wasn’t in the mood in the day care early in the week. The school wasn’t the place to do it. Home on my own it seems a bit silly. That’s ok. I’ve had lots of years to color eggs, will have many more. The golden egg dye in the box on my counter is possibility enough for now.

Here’s the poem, to give you an entry point to the holiness of waiting. Spring will come.  For a person sleeping erratically, the poem helps with that, too.


Mar. 30, 2013

The Writer's Almanac with Garrison Keillor



by Jim Harrison

Something new in the air today, perhaps the struggle of the bud
to become a leaf. Nearly two weeks late it invaded the air but
then what is two weeks to life herself? On a cool night there is
a break from the struggle of becoming. I suppose that’s why we
sleep. In a childhood story they spoke of the land of enchant-
ment.” We crawl to it, we short-lived mammals, not realizing that
we are already there. To the gods the moon is the entire moon
but to us it changes second by second because we are always fish
in the belly of the whale of earth. We are encased and can’t stray
from the house of our bodies. I could say that we are released,
but I don’t know, in our private night when our souls explode
into a billion fragments then calmly regather in a black pool in
the forest, far from the cage of flesh, the unremitting “I.” This was
a dream and in dreams we are forever alone walking the ghost
road beyond our lives. Of late I see waking as another chance at

“Spring” by Jim Harrison, from Songs of Unreason. © Copper Canyon Press, 2011. Reprinted with permission. (buy now)