Easter Light: A New Chapter, A Quiet Blessing

This week marks a tender, sacred time… Not only because it is holy week, but also because it reflects the season of deep transition in our lives. Just a few short weeks ago, my husband and I moved into a new townhome in a new city. The journey here began in January, when we first started talking seriously about downsizing and letting go of the home we had loved along the coast.

We listed our home on February 10. By Valentine’s Day, it was in escrow. Since then, life has been a swirl of packing, donating, saying goodbye, and now… slowly… saying hello.

The furniture arrived on March 31, and I spent my first night here alone before Joe joined me a few days later. The first night was quite full of emotion. Even now each day brings a mix of gratitude, joy, and occasional waves of vulnerability. I’ve caught myself wondering: Did we do the right thing? Is this new chapter as beautiful as I hoped? Am I enough?

These questions are not unfamiliar. They followed me for years, especially as someone who grew up in a family touched by the complexities of addiction. I’m the youngest girl of five children, and throughout my life, I’ve worked hard… as a teacher for 30 years, and in the many creative spaces that bring me joy: music, writing, and the rhythm of every day life. Still, sometimes the old voice whispers, you should be doing more. You should have more. You should be more.

And yet, grace arrives in the quietest ways.

Just yesterday, Joe opened a box we thought we lost… and inside was my beloved Nantucket basket. I had tucked it away so carefully that I’d forgotten where I placed it. Seeing it again felt like a message from the universe: Not all is lost. What matters will find its way back to you.

Later, while walking the property, I discovered a small tree growing wild. We decided to replant it closer to our home, so we could watch it grow. That little tree now stands as the symbol of this chapter… rooted, delicate, full of promise.

This Easter, I find myself reflecting, not just on resurrection as a spiritual event, but as a personal and ongoing one. We’re always invited to begin again. We’re always offered light. And even in the mist of uncertainty, or self doubt, something quietly assures me: You are where you’re meant to be. Keep growing.

So tonight, as holy Thursday comes to a close, I rest in the soft comfort of the candlelight, the whisper of spring outside our window, and the knowing that I am, and always have been, enough.

Wishing you a gentle Easter and the courage to keep beginning again.

With warmth,

Marcia