Arose

I was looking back at last year's Easter post because I am nostalgic that way, and I was comforted that there are no dramatic changes. Harper and I both wore the dresses we wore last year (my wedding dress--the white linen, I noticed, is beginning to yellow a little. I'm going to look a little like Miss Havisham if I keep this up for much longer) and Helena's hair is slightly more voluminous. As you might be able to ascertain from her expression, Harper was not amenable to the photo shoot. In this one, she was pretending to be Brigitta in "The Sound of Music":
I like how she is choosing to disobey me by reading her Gideon Bible. Rich. Hudson was also irate about the memory making:

I don't know why my posture is so bizarre. I also don't know where we are going to take all of our staged group photos at the new place. I'm going to miss this old oak.

We are moving, and soon. To a house that we are buying and not just renting. It's exhilarating and also frightening. It's also possible I'll be posting more as a way to deny all of the packing and cleaning that needs to happen. So far, I've partially emptied one small kitchen drawer and put some winter clothes in a plastic bin. That just reminded me of this description of hell (or maybe it's just eternity?) in Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man by James Joyce. I can't remember it exactly. Something about birds moving single grains of sand from these mountains of sand to these other mountains of sand. That's kind of how it feels. Only the new mountain of sand is better than the old mountain of sand, in this case. And not sandy. We aren't moving to the beach, just the suburbs. It seems appropriate to end with a little Bob Dylan:

In the fury of the moment
I can see the Master's hand
In every leaf that trembles,
in every grain of sand.