Well, it’s Easter weekend as I write this and Christendom has taken some harsh blows even as the most important day of the liturgical year has come again. Bombings in Sri Lanka, the burning of Notre Dame Cathedral in France… And, of course, there is the continuance of anti-Christian, indeed even just anti-religious, activity around the world. Into this atmosphere, I sometimes wonder what a non-believer thinks. Many of them must feel touched by the Resurrection Story and the life of Jesus–or else Christian churches would not be overflowing on Easter Sunday (and Christmas), but not exactly filled to the brim the rest of the year. Which brings me to the non-Christian character, Sisyphus. What does he believe?
It’s an interesting question–a selfish fellow like Sisyphus–what’s he think?
Surely he is smart enough to know the story, having spent so many ages being punished. But what about the story gets to him? Any of it? Who does he identify with? The apostles, the gardener, the angels?
More likely he gets it all wrong. Gets caught up in something he can identify with, yet doesn’t grasp the main point. That’s Sisyphus’ basic humanity coming through–getting the idea, but only kind of.
Regardless the topic, that happens to me, to many of us, all the time. We are caught up in the bit of something we can understand, and miss the part that might change us. Sisyphus is a bit lost in this garden, seeing and not seeing at the same time.
Sisyphus in the Easter Garden
Rain pasted petals, pink
on stepping stone and brick path.
Tissue thin, wrapping silence
in remnants of blooms, memories.
A whole garden of remembrance, meant
to make a memory? Or fill one?
No. Water features overflow,
tadpoles thrive where they oughtn’t.
Robins, fat and unafraid, fill up
on worms struggling to breathe.
Worms have no choice but to rise from
the dark earth turned by a patient gardener.
They take the odds against beak and sorrow
because they must. Sorrow might arrive
even as they undulate through mulch,
but it’s the beak they fear feeling.
In the far garden, at the natural wall,
behind sagging lilacs & bent-head tulips,
the stone wheel stands, cut so even
a petite hand can turn it. How many
ages it took me to wear my stone down.
And this one, so elegant, gone now
to history, after only the one use.
If you enjoyed Sisyphus in the Easter Garden
You’ll find more of my poems on this blog or in the collection Stars Crawl Out From Their Caves, which is available in both ebook and print.
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