A message arrived last night from Renzo.
“I’m making egg tagliatelle with an asparagus sauce for Easter lunch, and there will be some for you. Ok?”
I didn’t read it until this morning, so I wrote back, first thing.
“Okay! That will be a real Easter lunch! Thank you so much.”
My day had a center to it, thanks again to my wonderful neighbors.
I went about my morning chores, meditated, walked the circus minimus, called my dear friend Joan in Tunkhannock, Pennsylvania.
“Time to hang up,” she said. The connection wasn’t great, but I could have kept talking.
Turns out, her timing was perfect. I went upstairs to put my phone under charge (it would surely be regarded as a vintage model, and its battery is slowing down), and as I was doing that I heard my name. Renzo had let himself in through the gate, and was already coming out of the lower door of the house (observant of distancing) by the time I was out on the landing. He carried a tray.
“I brought you lunch,” and he gestured inside towards the table. “Buona Pasqua.”
He retreated towards the gate so I could get a peek. The table was laid with a healthy portion of pasta, what looked like breaded chicken, a sour-cherry crostata, a few cookies of various kinds, and even a shard of a chocolate egg!
“Buona Pasqua!” echoed a voice from above. Patrizia had come out onto the balcony.
“Oh, guys, this is so wonderful! A real Easter dinner. I can’t tell you how special this is!”
They both chuckled.
“I want to take of picture of the two of you together, and the only place we can do that is on your balcony, so… can we?” I didn’t say, your fans are dying to know what you look like, but I could have.
Renzo, while replacing the key, nodded and waved his hand over his shoulder. Patrizia beamed.
“This is all homemade, even the tagliatelle?”
“Renzo’s pasta.” I wasn’t sure if that meant other things were her creation, or if Renzo was responsible for everything, and I didn’t have a chance to find out because he returned upstairs in record time. A photo was taken, and everyone went inside for Easter lunch.
The tagliatelle was the most delicate, elegant, and delicious I’ve ever had. The chicken was likewise good. And what I sampled of the pastry was the same wonderful product I am privileged to expect from my neighbors’ kitchen. I went to text them. A message was waiting.
“I forgot to tell you to put a spritz of lemon juice on the meat.”
I wrote back what I just told you, acknowledging that a bit of lemon would have improved the chicken, but it was nevertheless excellent.”
“Not chicken, lamb! The traditional meat for Pasqua.”
“Of course! It’s been years since I’ve had lamb, and never breaded like this, or so delicate,” and I thanked them again.
After lunch, I walked in circles while listening to a conversation between Krista Tippett and Brother David Steindl-Rast. They talked about gratitude. That gratitude leads to joy, if you let it. Brother David compared it to the bowl of a fountain; it is silent until the bowl begins to overflow, then the water makes a joyful noise as it cascades into the fountain’s next level. And that, in wealthy, consumer societies, the joyful cascade is often not permitted to happen. It gets advertised out of existence. He said that gratitude fills the bowl, but instead of joyfully overflowing, we make the bowl larger – we need a more recent model, the next cool thing, more of that, I want something else. And as long as that’s the case, we never experience the joy that naturally follows gratitude.
When I wrote back to thank Renzo and Patrizia again, at message’s end, I said, “Beyond everything, thank you for your friendship.”
And the reply – “We are also very happy for the friendship,” and the bowl of gratitude, and my eyes, overflowed in plenty.
What the miracle of Easter teaches me is that resurrections happen every day — I only need be quiet enough to notice. And when I do, a joyful noise will always follow.
Happy Easter, everyone!