Why is easter about colored eggs? Why are all holidays about food? Comfort. Gathering. Community. Some greater purpose. Calling family. Well Wishes. My mom says she's trying to stay calm. Holidays freak her out and put pressure on an already fragile composition of nerves. So she goes on a 7 minute rant about the immediate stress in her life and wishing people would die. Sounds morose, I know. But that's what happens. Total honesty. On the raw leading edge where no filters exist. I juggle it with a grain of salt and go back to my beautiful blue eyed son who is staring at me through the most angelic eyes. Holidays are about the kids. That's what everyone I called tells me today. People who's kids are all grown and they are living on their own now. You can hear it in their voices - missing that carefree happiness that engulfs the little ones that so often leaves the grown-ups. But back to the food. Any excuse to make a meal - make a cake - make a moment in time stand still. A mushroom omelet with jalepeno cheese. Home fries. Baguette slathered in fig jam. Strong french press coffee. A perfect meal. I'll settle for store bought Easter candy for dessert - no time to make a cake these days. There's something nostalgic and fulfilling about York peppermint patties and Reese's peanut butter cups.

Happy Easter.

post-holiday musings

You can't push passion. Or artistic inspiration. It just happens and takes over. Something that you want to do, think you should do, have a passion to do. It's a fickle thing. Driven by emotion and a balance of making yourself do something and wanting to do something. My head is in the clouds. Refuses to come down to earth. And I know it's a plan of self-preservation. Coming to the earth plane means submerging myself in anxiety and darkness. At least right now. You can force positive thinking on yourself and wrap yourself in a layer of affirmations. Fake it till you make it. Look for the positive in every problem. But sometimes you just need to stare reality in it's face and calmly look at it. Begging it to transform into something else is futile. Attempts at metamorphosis are best left to Kafka. I'm still here. Standing in the muck and mire. And also so thankful for all that garbage thrown onto my path. It makes me stronger, no?