Rebirth is part of all it; the rebirth doesn’t have to be big or religious or anything specific—but you have to be open to it and present for it; that, as far as I can tell, is what is still possible in the Easter/equinox/Eliot stretch of late March and early April—this sense of thawing and growing… latent even in the overstimulated, overanxious hypermodern brain.
I write this on my laptop running late to an Easter lunch with friends after tutoring (some kind of secularized ritual I guess). I woke up to tutor this morning, on Zoom, and after a strangely rich night of dreams, felt a little more engaged and alert than I sometimes do working over a screen in the mornings.
It’s Sunday and instead of worshipping, I’m working and networking and hanging out, searching for what transcendence means in the ever-liquid and percolating movement of city-time.
Writing as the art of returning. Writing is a return to the foundations of conscious, or a tool which allows us to excavate. It is both an echo of the deepest strata and a means of reaching it, a sonar ping which finds itself.