Happy Easter, Quarantine.

Today I sang this song in my head 
(to the tune of Neil Sedaka's "Happy Birthday, Sweet 16"):

"If I should cry/

In great despair

It's cause it's nice outside, and I can't go out there./

This is the worst beginning of spring I've ever seen!/

Happy Easter, Quarantine!"

I do not enjoy the holiday of Easter. It bothers me that the miraculous resurrection of the Messiah has been reduced to candy filled eggs and matching Easter ensembles. Let's be real, most people who feign devastation about missing church this Easter Sunday were regularly and voluntarily missing church before the pandemic. Tangentially, I find the symbol of the cross to be tacky, because that was not the point. He suffered in the Garden of Gethsemane, bleeding from every pore for the sins of mankind. He allowed Himself to be crucified on Calvary. And He was resurrected; the reunion of body and spirit never again to be divided. Which of these is the most important? I can die. I can't, however, suffer for others sins and be resurrected of my own volition. If I could chose a symbol to casually flaunt my Christianity (which I wouldn't, because that would make me a hypocrite), I would chose the symbol of the empty tomb. 

“He is not here, but is risen: remember how he spake unto you when he was yet in Galilee/ Saying, The Son of man must be delivered into the hands of sinful men, and be crucified, and the third day rise again.” (Luke 24:6)

If Jesus does live again, it is the most incredible and reassuring event in human history — the victory over death. The dark afternoon of His Crucifixion followed by the joyous morning of His Resurrection. The pain and agony of Gethsemane and Calvary, wiped away. That is the culmination of the miracle of the atonement. And that is why the glorification of the symbol of the cross is incorrect (imo). 

. . . 

Because I am not special, I imagine everyone feels suffocating darkness from time to time. For me its various personalities are familiar. Some days it's a fuzzy nugget nipping at my heels like an annoying tiny dog. Others days it's flying-monkey-dive-bombing me unexpectedly and retreating so quickly it seems a hallucination. About twice a month it is a black hole that I Persephone into, and it crushes my spirit and makes me unrecognizable. We all have things we put on pedestals. Some of them don't belong there, but we do it anyway. If we keep them around enough, we will see flaws or weaknesses. We become disenchanted, and the pedestal topples. This is like that. The darkness has become familiar and I see its instability. I know it will eventually revert to the vaguely annoying fuzzy nugget. To be rid of it forever feels impossible. To make it consistently small would require me to deconstruct myself and look at the rot in my soul, and I don't want to engage with all that. To become immune to it would be to block my feelings completely. 

Someone told me once that they like my darkness because it means there is a part of me that is equally bright. That's a nice thought. 
Maybe brightness isn't something you can see in yourself. Like how you can't taste your own saliva.
. . . 

The church bells of West Seattle remind me that today is Easter. I sent Easter cards to my parents and Grandparents, but have since forgotten the holiday. I need to commemorate the day somehow . . . 
Because Jesus broke the bands of death, I will fill 4.5 plastic eggs with treats and hide them for Fr to find. "O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?" Oh Camilla, where are thy eggs? 

 . . . I do love these church bells. 

Today was very dark. I feel like I'm drowning in tar.