I woke up this morning, literally thinking, thinking that I needed to call on Monday and change Sophie's doctor's appointment from Wednesday when she'd have to miss school, to later in June when she's out of school. I thought about Easter, how I had no plans. I wondered what machinations of the brain had happened in the moment before that thought, how I'd gone from sleep to wake to thought to navel.
Navel-gazing -- I've always hated that term, probably because I do a lot of it. I lay in bed this morning, mourning Easter and the fact that I have no plans. I have no plans because I've made no plans, other than the filling of Easter baskets for the children. I won't be the Catholic that goes to church on Easter Sunday, but I will be the person who thinks deeply about the day's meaning in our culture, about the love reborn, about the spring.
Thought lies heavy in the morning over the navel. It depresses the bed beneath it.
There's this The Palm at the End of the Mind After fulfilling everythingone two three he came back againfree, no more prophecy requiringthat he enter the city just this way,no more set-up treacheries.It was the day after Easter. He adoredthe eggshell litter and the cellophanecaught in the grass. Each door he passedswung with its own business, all the witnesses along his route of painagain distracted by fear of lossor hope of gain. It was wonderfulto be a man, bewildered by so many flowers, the rushand ebb of hours, his ownambiguous gestures--his whole heart exposed, thentaking cover. --Kay Ryan