Why is this day different?
There will be no gathering at the Seder table this year though the daffodils are past their bloom and the peonies are rising out of the soil and the redbuds have that soft glistening sheen against the very newly tender green of just opening trees. Which is to say to everything is the same, but everything is different. The moon is full in her course, the peepers are singing mightily in the evening there is a hum of cicadas rubbing their wings together, everything waking up, opening, inviting. Except us.
I have grown so close to my home that my skin and the paint on the walls of my room have begun to have the same tint. I have come to know the paths around my yard, and the pond even more closely, aware of each new mole tunnel, the twigs fallen since the night before
The violets and dandelions multiplying daily. The woodpeckers are eating their fill at the feeders, the first frogs are jumping in the pond, the new puppy is discovering everything which makes her forget to come when I call, though she heads for the porch at any rare sound, knowing well where home is, and safety abounds for her.
And while we will not retell the story in the usual way tonight, I will ask where we are bound in this new land. There is no turning back to what there was, and no guarantees of freedom, I don’t even think that is the word we would use for what we are seeking. Maybe something closer to faith, or grace, maybe someplace to feel the days blending into each other even as this bursting spring vanquishes the dull brown gray of winter. We are still wandering into some new land without directions, only the hope of finding some solace in the songs we remember, and the faith that there are new ones we will be able to learn.