There’s something about Easter weekend that doesn’t quite land the way it used to.

I know it’s meant to be symbolic. We talk about renewal and resurrection and light returning. But in real life, it’s more complicated than that. Maybe it’s all the “rebirth” language in the air that feels…honestly…a bit rushed.

I keep thinking a lot about how before resurrection, there’s a whole lot of not-knowing. It’s the in-between. There’s a burial, a dark cave, a stretch of time where everything looks like it’s over. But isn’t.

I know this place.

It’s not the moment of loss, and it’s not the moment of clarity either. It’s the one between the achey, unshaped space where something’s being rewritten inside you. And no one else can see it.

This week I stood outside at dusk – (yup that’s my new normal) – with my three foraging-in-the-dew runner ducks. No music. No phone. Just the sound of the ducks in the early morning stillness. I didn’t want to be rushed. I didn’t feel sad, exactly. But I also didn’t feel light.

It was more like a quiet awareness that something was shifting, and that I’m not who I was… even last month.

Years ago, I would’ve pushed past that moment and filled the silence. I would have called it nothing. But now I know better. Now I know that’s the threshold (my new favourite word) where something sacred stirs.

Grief isn’t always loud. And neither is transformation. They often show up as a pause, or a stillness, or a truth that doesn’t need a name to be real.

So if this weekend feels like more than chocolate eggs and Easter brunch, you’re not off. You’re probably tuning into that ancient place between Good Friday and whatever “resurrection” is going to mean for you.

It doesn’t mean you have to feel light. And you don’t have to pretend it all makes sense. You just have to be honest about what’s stirring. Even if the only one who hears it is you.

And maybe that’s the most sacred part of all.

With love, quiet mornings, and the sound of webbed feet in wet grass,
Jonni

PS: Some of us are blooming slow this year. And I don’t feel like that’s a flaw. It’s more like a rhythm. The kind that listens before it moves. The kind that knows roots come before petals.