Over the weekend, I read Elizabeth Gilbert's Eat, Pray, Love. At least two people have told me (in not so many words) that I should read it, but I'd been putting it off because it's a book about a quest for inner peace and I didn't want to accidentally lift any ideas from it.
Holy areole, the woman knows her Eastern spirituality. A third of the book is about her time at an Ashram in India, and she does an amazing job of making that accessible. I'd been concerned. The first part is about her stay in Italy; you can talk delicious food to me all day. I'm down with that. But when you start talking about reaching a higher plane and having a Guru and chanting in Sanskrit, my tendency is back away, quickly, to the world of synthetic fibers and small talk about real estate. But I got all wrapped up in Gilbert's story. I was humbled by the breadth of her knowledge and commitment.
Particularly on Sunday when Easter rolled around, which we celebrate in a basket-and-chocolate sort of way. This year was different: In the morning, after The Holy Ingesting of The First Peanut Butter Egg, Caleb leaned up against my lap and asked, "Why do we celebrate Easter again?"
"Well, you know who Jesus is, right?" I asked. When I was his age, I could have come at you with the Beatitudes and most of the major parables.
"And you know Christmas is when Jesus was born?"
You could see the wheels turning. "Ohhh," he said. "So Easter celebrates when Jesus's mom got pregnant."