I woke up at dawn on Easter morning this year, slipped
out of bed and out the back door wearing borrowed clothes (something about
staying at my parents house makes me want to pilfer old and musty smelling
fleeces and wellies rather than using my own.)
Curled in a battered wicker chair, I watched the
sunrise creeping up,
I reread the gospel account of the empty tomb, felt
the despair turned to disbelief turned to joy of the women, could almost hear
the pounding feet as John and Peter tore their way to the tomb hardly daring to
believe.
I felt his tenderness over the breathless hope of it
all, the feeling of being gathered under his wing in that moment before the
dawn, sitting front row as the story unfolded before me.
After a while, dad came and joined me, another early
riser, capturing the sky with his camera.
On another note, I have recently learned how to make
fire! As part of my super fun level three, forest school training, I will
actually be assessed on my ability to create and sustain a 10-minute fire.
This is scary to
me. Although I may project the image of an outdoorsy girl, I confess
that I’ve sometimes exaggerated the level of my basic survival skills, using a
careful smokescreen of enthusiasm, general gameness, and an aversion to make
up.
But now I’ve gone and put
my money where my north face jacket is and over the weekend created two
salacious and roaring blazes, (two because I had to check the first wasn’t a
fluke!)
the end
