An Easter Meditation

There is a tale that we tell for almost two thousand years. It is a story of death, tragic and painful like every end can be, but it unfolds amidst blossoms – the laughter of the yellows and the softness of the pinks – and, as such, it never feels dramatic. For, against the callistemon shrubs that burst into flaming fireworks and the poppies that put on their most provocative makeup, sadness seems strange and cannot last for long.

The tale takes place in springtime when the swallows etch smiles on the sky, the sea shivers coquettishly like a young maiden at her debut ball, and the earth fragrances her bosom with the scent of the spartium bushes and the incense of the sour orange trees. The wild orchids rise, the opalescent beetles embark on expeditions, and the roses – oh, the roses! – they awaken like princesses after a long sleep, opening their hearts, charming and bewitching.

At the centre of such a passionate palette, we – a crowd of fragile, fearful beings – stand numbed, remaining loyal to the earthen colours of Byzantium. And as we mock the joy of Demeter, we follow our mournful processions, offering posies as votives, for we are afraid of such abundance, and we rush to exorcise the evil by a touch of grief and heartbreak. Somehow, we take it up to us to create the contrast in the canvas – the shadow in the brightness, the grey in the red – as, otherwise, we fear the composition will be incomplete, fake, arrogant. In our doubts, we find it hard to rejoice.

But, despite all the fasting and the chanting and the solemn dispositions, life explodes around us and we are quickly carried away by the currents. Laughter comes uninvited to the processions – as it happens in all funerals – and, as we try to pretend, to pace ourselves against the twirling rhythm of nature, to cry and surrender to the fear of the inevitable, we acknowledge the awakening of our own sensual tides and, unexpectedly, we relax. Amidst the cosmos’ rebirth, death is exposed for the illusion that it is and, instead of an opponent, he becomes a friend: the companion that adds meaning to our existence, the ally that turns our individual stories from absurd and hollow to purposeful and important. So, we dare to look into his eyes, singing with him, singing for him, and we hold each other’s hands as we launch into whirling dances, thumping our feet on the marbles of the tombs, bedewed with the vernal aromas that we save for the epitaph.

— . —

There is a tale that we tell for almost two thousand years. It is a story of hope, of second chances, and new beginnings, and it sprouts – as if on a theatre’s stage – against a backdrop devoid of light. From a silent womb, from the vibration of hushed respirations, a single flame emerges, it floats in the darkness multiplying with every touch, and as it spreads like liquid gold to all directions and reflects on the dilated pupils of the congregation, it connects strangers into a grid of unbreakable bonds.

Firecrackers explode, chaos succeeds the temporary – deceptive – order and the hearts quiver, awakening from a lethargic state of indifference and disbelief. Mouths open and close in united chanting and, yet, they are mute, for, in this ritual, the human presence is dampened, and the light prevails as the dominant path and destination: a bridge that links all elements but belongs to no one, detached, impartial, and divine.

And as the last rocket burns away into oblivion with the satisfaction of having fulfilled its destiny, as the night’s cloaks fall heavy and silence settles in anew, we leave, carrying away at the tip of our candle a flickering fragment of collective memory – a sliver of hope. For a few minutes, we have become whole again: a solid dot before the Big Bang, a speck of the universe and the universe itself. We feel free, buoyant, and carefree – and, finally, we celebrate.

— . —

There is a tale that we tell for almost two thousand years. We believe that we invented it ourselves, that it belongs to us, for we have forgotten the crosses – already old symbols – on the tombs of the Persian emperors, the sound of Persephone’s skittering gait, and the series of deities in states of perpetual resurrection since time immemorial. But, in all our blindness, arrogance, and self-centeredness, we remain connected in a realm of collective consciousness, and we keep recycling the same stories, evolving only in our interpretations, as we launch, generation after generation, in a quest of understanding the essence of our being. We secretly weave this wisdom in our genes and, as centuries pass by, it becomes a part of our spiritual DNA: a remembrance of origins, a truth amidst illusions, our thoughts and our integrity.

There is a tale that we tell every Spring. It is an extraordinary and unusual story and, yet, it’s not unique. It is just one of the many that define our existence.

Photo credits: © Konstantina Sakellariou

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