Easter
Greek Easter is over now, and for the third year running, I haven’t made it up to the Twin Cities (where the closest Greek Orthodox Church is) to celebrate Holy Week. I miss everything about it, from fasting to the beautiful services to the Easter vigil and passing of the Easter light. But, going to the Twin Cities was lonely in its own way—I don’t know the Greeks there, have no connection to the place. I miss my family, more so at this time of year than any other. Still, from the beginning of my coming out process in college—and the beginning, too, of my becoming a critical thinker whose beliefs shifted dramatically—I have felt equally comforted and ill at ease when surrounded by the iconography of my youth.
This year, I decided to have people over for Greek food and socializing, and I had a steady stream from 5:00 until 9:30, with waves of young families early on and college students at the end of the night. It was good to remember that even if I’ve had to give up some of my rituals (though I still read through all the Holy Week services, and lit a candle at midnight and sang Christos Anesti), I live in a community full of love.
Love is a ritual of its own. This has been clear to me in the times of my life when I had a partner, but sometimes, as a single person, it has not been nearly as clear. But parenting is full of ritual—the daily routine, the reoccurring challenges, the spurts of growth—not totally predictable, and certainly not controllable, but lovely and spiritual nonetheless. The rituals of being with people I love, eating together, of telling stories, or being present with each other, of sharing wine—all of these sustained me on Sunday, possibly more deeply than church did in earlier periods of my life.
At the end of the night, surrounded by mostly college seniors, I was also reminded of how much my life changes each year, and how this was true even before S. came into my life. I have seen so many generations of college students enter and leave now, and this summer, I will officiate at one wedding of former students and attend two others. I get a little nostalgic, and sad, at this time of year, but I also feel this incredible sense of hope and possibility. These students are ready for challenge and for deep reflection. They are thoughtful and idealistic at the same time.
Another reason for hope: I will have a job next year. I will be coordinating a program with responsibilities much wider than the current program, and will go down to teaching only one class/year. This is a budget savings technique, and it’s hard not to feel guilty that I’ve fared so much better than so many of my colleagues—I’ll be saying goodbye to many good people who have worked as hard as I have, but simply haven’t been as lucky. In contrast, I’ll make exactly what I make now, and I’ll have about the same amount of work.
But it is also an exciting time; I get to build a team of students and community partners who can help usher the program through a major transition and can reflect on what we’ve done and plan for the future. There is nothing more hopeful than the opportunity to reflect, learn from the past, move into the future—and Easter, and my life in general right now, seems to be a remind of just this truth.
This year, I decided to have people over for Greek food and socializing, and I had a steady stream from 5:00 until 9:30, with waves of young families early on and college students at the end of the night. It was good to remember that even if I’ve had to give up some of my rituals (though I still read through all the Holy Week services, and lit a candle at midnight and sang Christos Anesti), I live in a community full of love.
Love is a ritual of its own. This has been clear to me in the times of my life when I had a partner, but sometimes, as a single person, it has not been nearly as clear. But parenting is full of ritual—the daily routine, the reoccurring challenges, the spurts of growth—not totally predictable, and certainly not controllable, but lovely and spiritual nonetheless. The rituals of being with people I love, eating together, of telling stories, or being present with each other, of sharing wine—all of these sustained me on Sunday, possibly more deeply than church did in earlier periods of my life.
At the end of the night, surrounded by mostly college seniors, I was also reminded of how much my life changes each year, and how this was true even before S. came into my life. I have seen so many generations of college students enter and leave now, and this summer, I will officiate at one wedding of former students and attend two others. I get a little nostalgic, and sad, at this time of year, but I also feel this incredible sense of hope and possibility. These students are ready for challenge and for deep reflection. They are thoughtful and idealistic at the same time.
Another reason for hope: I will have a job next year. I will be coordinating a program with responsibilities much wider than the current program, and will go down to teaching only one class/year. This is a budget savings technique, and it’s hard not to feel guilty that I’ve fared so much better than so many of my colleagues—I’ll be saying goodbye to many good people who have worked as hard as I have, but simply haven’t been as lucky. In contrast, I’ll make exactly what I make now, and I’ll have about the same amount of work.
But it is also an exciting time; I get to build a team of students and community partners who can help usher the program through a major transition and can reflect on what we’ve done and plan for the future. There is nothing more hopeful than the opportunity to reflect, learn from the past, move into the future—and Easter, and my life in general right now, seems to be a remind of just this truth.
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