The moon last night rose almost as bright as a dawn. I sat on my doorstep and watched it until I could no longer bear such gold. A wild-hearted cat kept me company, its eyes full of moon. When I went back inside it was still early - we're on real time again, the clocks finally having fallen back into sychronicity with nature, with woman-time, farmer-time. I think if more people sat to watch a moon rising in the eyes of a cat or a poet or a wondering child, there would be less call for daylight savings.
I'd been to church earlier in the day, but the moon did more for me. The vicar had a lovely voice but he lost me when he gently mocked Mary for supposing Christ was the gardener. It's always seemed clear to me that Mary was not mistaken, and in that moment she truly witnessed Christ in all his divinity, as the raiser of seeds, the lover of earth, the carer of the garden. That's what real, true-hearted power looks like, isn't it - so gentle, so simple, and maybe a little lonely. I am not alone in my impression. When I complained about this on Facebook, a kind person sent me this poem.
by Fred La Motte
EASTER MORNING - A POEM FROM MY LITTLE BOOK, 'WOUNDED BUD'
"We seldom notice how each day is a holy place where the
Eucharist of the ordinary happens." ~John O'Donahue
Out beyond Christianity
Magdalene and Jesus are dancing
in a garden where things grow wild,
where things grow into what they are.
Many paths lead here, not one,
and the gates are always open.
Over each gate there's a sign:
Mary thinks Jesus is the gardener,
and he is.
They drink the wine that turns
temples into bodies again.
She reaches out to take his hand:
he lets her.
There are three rules here:
Yearn, Risk Everything, Connect.
Easter is over but the sacred never ends, so long as love is present. It is love that makes anything holy, otherwise we're just washing dishes and driving to work in the glare of morning light or sitting at night beneath an illuminated rock in the sky.