Holy

Dear Friends,

Here’s an essay for you, in pink. Don’t be fooled (again) by pastels. haha!

Hint: scroll through for the photos that follow.

xo,

kk

(PS. The spacing is off for the Niedecker poem, right below the blossoms. It stair-steps the other way)

photo: kk

Easter

A robin stood by my porch
and side-eyed
raised up
a worm

~Lorine Niedecker

On Easter morning sparkle-light flew through the stained-glass arches in my grandmother’s church. A participatory theater. There were books in front of our knees. Later when I would go on an airplane—it was like that. A pocket for pamphlets and books. At church you knew it was the bible because it had a flexible cover with bumps and its shape was different than ordinary books. I’d seen books edged with gold but not so many identical in one place. We could borrow them when we were in the pews only. My mother, grandmother, and the grownups rustled as they stood. They turned their pages before singing. They lightly closed the book, sat down and my mother gave me a butterscotch from her purse.

Glory be to the father, and to the son and to the Holy ghost. As it was in the beginning, is now and ever shall be, world without end. Aaahhmen. Aaahhmen.

It had a nice tune, with ups and downs, which waits for me anytime I want. It had nothing to do with our actual fathers, who sat all around, and didn’t seem phased by the song.

And besides that,

Our father who

art in heaven.

Hallowed be they name.

Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven…

It was proof that father was a code word for God. We all knew that. If you could talk at all you would know that. No one explained it to me, and the words were soothing, like how another language is soothing since you don’t have to worry about what it means.

My father and especially my mother worked hard to take Rog and me to the theater, even Shakespeare in the round, in a tent where actors would circle close in, and speak loudly to your face. We’d drive through trees to Tanglewood with our picnic. And at the Boston Clam Shell we’d sit on grass and watch sailboats in the harbor. We listened to the Boston Symphony’s version of “It’s a gift to be simple.” We went to dance concerts, and also the inside type of theater that you’d dress up for, with wide stairs, and heavy velvet curtains. The lights winked when it was time to return after intermission. When we got home from the opening of the Calder exhibit in the art museum, my father pinned up a print of stairs that go everywhere but never get anywhere. My family would pull up chairs to watch the small television on wheels, PBS. A family of librarians, we’d be read to and we’d read quietly to ourselves and if there was a good line, we’d say: Listen to this one!

Basically, we were an enthusiastic nature loving, art-going family. So, when it was time to say, Our father who art in heaven, I understood it. I didn’t think we’d be making art in heaven. But since art was the greater good and heaven was—well, heaven. Art heaven art heaven art heaven. It went together fine. whoArtinheavenwhoartinheaven art heaven art n heaven. It blended like how chickadees change their song from winter to spring mornings without missing a beat.

There were ghosts of all sorts.

I was named after my grandmother. They called her Kay. They called me Kathy. When the kids on my block said I wasn’t Catholic, I argued with them, since my name was Kathy, I said, (which obviously made me Catholic.)

My grandmother’s kitchen’s overhead light had a long string with a small pendant to weight it and a knot on the end. The light would flicker as I pulled the string, like my kitchen light does now. The house I’m in now was built in 1930. My grandmother would have been thirty.

In my grandmother’s church, people with shallow woven baskets waited at the end of each row. Rog and I were given coins to put in the baskets. I was nervous about putting my quarter in and holding the basket to pass. What if it tipped and the money fell out? What if I took a dollar by accident? It was formal and surprising. The quiet sounds of the minister during, and gentle murmur of people greeting each other afterwards made me sleepy.

Rog and I didn’t have special clothes for Easter. Girls I knew had little pink suits with jackets, and clasp purses on gold chains to match. Those, I believe, were the actual Catholics. They wore jeans and mini-skirts on regular Sundays, but on Easter they went full blast as far as fashion went.

We went to the playground after church, and mostly it was swing set weather, but sometimes New England cold, and our pastels wouldn’t hold up.

Photo: Stephanie Baker | of Penny Irish

~

The day before Easter I picked up Claudia at her apartment to go to our hike in the enchanted forest. We saw a girl named Penny Irish, in a Japanese influenced white and pink rabbit art/costume. It was the most beautiful thing, with poms and long ears that flopped, and a pink white dress layered, textured, and firm enough to flair out. What is this? I wondered. Her mother, Stephanie Baker said, she’s into anime cosplay fashion, and I could totally see it. Mother and daughter were on their way to the pink blossoming tree to take her photo. I gradually understood Penny’s Easter would include this photo that she would send to her friends and family from her phone.

The Enchanted Forest is its actual name and also it feels exactly this way. You walk up around curves and come upon tall pine trees that mirror each other, with spaces around them but they are unequal spaces. Claudia and I can walk and talk about anything freely. We can talk about our knees on the way down.

I admitted to Claudia that I had sad thoughts while doing my taxes, and it was the same thoughts as I had going to the new dentist, last week. It was the appointment where they make the plan for next time, which reminded me of being caught by my parents sneaking out of the house or trying to run from home. It was like the time you all sit down together and say finally, what will we do for Katharine? And during those sorts of serious times where I am finally caught and investigated, in the middle of those times, I would glance up and think when I’m dead I won’t have to do this anymore.

Claudia said, I know exactly what you mean.

This is not a harm-yourself thought. It’s a thought that jumps in by surprise; probably the kind of thought someone might have before doing something fun, like calling your friend for a hike, rising from the couch to go to church, rising to pull on your white and pink rabbit anime cosplay costume, including hood.

After saying goodbye to Claudia, on my way home, I saw a woman in pink on a motorcycle. A specialness exuded from her.

Maybe for Easter you decide on the pink leggings— strap your black wallet onto your right upper leg for convenience (and reasons of creativity) strap on your helmet which covers your face like an astronaut circling the lee side of the moon, climb onto your purple-blue motorcycle with wings in a state of constant flare, lean forward like you might crawl, look side to side for safety, in your leather jacket, and boots.

You head flying into the early evening, with your own motor. You move, roll through traffic, or whatever appears in your way—a slightly special feeling, not exactly a miracle—you rise and fall with whatever it is, nothing special, every day.

~ o ~

photo:kk |with the drivers quick permission!

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