The Thing About Holidays...

I clearly recall my literature professor at the Centro de Lenguas Modernas in Granada explaining to all of us guiris that the tears shed during Semana Santa weren't necessarily for Jesus; but rather because each year, as usually happens with big holidays, people look back to the year before and the one before that, and remember those who are no longer here, relationships that are no more, or simply pause to think about all that's happened in the time that's passed.

I haven't cried yet this Easter, but this year is certainly different from past years. I remember my first Semana Santa in Granada--I did my best to suppress a visceral aversion to the penitents who look for all the world like KKK members. All the same, I was enchanted by the music; I remember the chills and my hair standing on end when I first heard the drums and trumpets sounds through the streets. My second Semana Santa I shared with a good friend from Portland. I experienced La Roda's processions for the first time with her. Miércoles santo we were swept up into the procession of faithful following Jesus on his silent sojourn around town. My third Semana Santa, my parents visited. We went to Sevilla on Tuesday and Thursday my mom practically filled the memory card of our camera with pictures of me playing in the municipal band! The years after that, are a blur, but all are speckled with tapas, wine, copas, laughter, and even occasionally tears.

This year, is different for many reasons, I suppose, though I couldn't name them for you. Yesterday night was one of the coldest nights we've had all year and unlike other years when I've stuck out the cold to watch Jesus make his way slowly back into the church, his shadow shrinking back through the iron doors of the church, this year I just went home after the first hour of the procession.

Today, I went with Angelines to watch the Cristo and the Mediación make their appearances in the street. Once they were out, we headed to the bar. I helped her set things up, then headed home to walk the dog. I caught the procession as it went through my neighborhood and then I came home, made dinner, washed the dishes, and watched a documentary my sister had recommended to me. Usually I've spent the entire day out of the house and haven't come home until well past end of the procession.

Tomorrow and Saturday the weather forecast is against us: rain. Of course, if there's a good chance of showers, the processions won't go out at all--in fact, this afternoon's ended in a flourish because it began to rain.

So this year, it seems is turning out to be a split from the pattern of past years. We tend to be so reluctant to change that these moments of realization can be sad, nostalgic, melancholy. I can't say I haven't felt a tinge of that nostalgia, but at the same time a break from the past is liberating. Whether or not I'll look back on this year with melancholy or relief or indifference I don't know, but I will certainly remember this eighth Semana Santa.