Sunday, April 17, 2011

held in the palm of a hand

On Palm Sunday morning eighteen years ago, Italia was born. A living, breathing, mewing, sacred symbol of resurrection in my own life, which had shut down months earlier when my father died very unexpectedly and very young. It wasn't as if a pink bundle dropped from the heavens and all was well, but she was such a blatant harbinger of hope that all I could do was power forward in faith. I was recently stunned to learn that grief shifts according to a seven-year cycle, which is when I distinctly remember noticing something akin to a peace that passeth understanding. It comes and goes, but once you know that feeling, you know what to crawl toward when you lose it. Palm Sunday starts out so triumphantly and culminates in devastation. It's a familiar scenario to all of us, again and again throughout life, in ways ranging from small to all-encompassing. Pain, disbelief, mourning, emptiness. Life as we knew it, coming to an end. Then, Easter.


Kristin Safford said...

beautifully written. thank you

Anonymous said...

Julie, Checking in again. And I loved this post. The sculpture is so tender and the words even more so. Mazel tov on Talia celebrating 18 in yoga pose. You are so wonderful at sharing.