Each year around Easter time, there is a feeling of spring in the air. I
remember that feeling growing up; the sun feels a little warmer, the birds are
singing, the trees are showing small little buds, and whatever snow is still on
the ground is melting, forming small rivulets that wander off to nowhere in
particular. The puddles reflect the blue skies and the few white clouds that
dot the sky. I enjoy taking a long walk at this time; life is returning, after
a long, dark, cold winter. The older I get, the less I enjoy winter. It wouldn’t
matter if I was a skier (I’m not); I prefer the warmth of spring and summer,
and even autumn, especially in New York where it can sometimes still be mild in
early November. I understand why older people prefer warmer climates; it’s not
just about the warmth, although that’s a big part of it. It’s about the
sunshine, the light, the feeling of renewal, the ease of life. Summer’s warmth
is a reminder that life doesn’t have to be so hard, that you’re allowed to take
it easy. Winter is the opposite—a constant reminder that life is hard, harsh
and unsympathetic, that you have to struggle to accomplish each little thing in
front of you. Just having to wear layers of clothing to protect against the
cold is already too much for me. I remember disliking that even as a child,
having to put on and take off snowsuits and sweaters underneath. I suppose
weather forms a person; if so, I much prefer the person I am in summer. The
winter person is merely waiting to be reborn as a summer person. I suppose that
all the seasons have their charms; I grew up in an area of the world that
experiences four seasons. Oslo is the same, except that winter is a longer
season here than in New York. As I get older, I wish winter was shorter.
One of the
memories that always comes back to me when I think of Easter is when I lived in
the Bronx in my early twenties, and was to spend Easter Sunday with my parents,
who lived in Tarrytown and who had invited family for dinner. I didn’t have a
car at that time, so I took the subway into Manhattan and then took the train
from Grand Central to Tarrytown. I remember the feeling in the city on Easter
Sunday; it was a gorgeous sunny day, flowers were in bloom, people were dressed
in their Easter finery and everyone seemed just a little happier than usual. Grand
Central Station was teeming with people on their way to different places. It’s
a memory that warms me when I think of it; I don’t know why it has stayed with
me all these years, but it has.
I am not
working this week, the week before Easter. It is wonderful to have those free
days—no stress, no deadlines, no duties, no having to be somewhere at a certain
time. Being able to go outside for a walk when I want, or waking early, lying
in bed and listening to the birds sing or squawk outside our bedroom window. Or
tackling the myriad of small house projects for which I suddenly have the time
and energy. The word resurrection comes to mind; this time of year is about
that too in the spiritual sense, and it is nice to be reminded of that in the
church services on Easter Sunday.
