It’s hard to be a pagan in this culture, where holidays like Easter lift our spirits and the economy at once. Jewish friends have their religious traditions, respected by most Christians. Even Muslims have their holidays noted on calendars these days. I would prefer to celebrate Beltane, the Celtic holiday on May 1, that recognizes the god of the sun, Beltanus, than the resurrection of Jesus, about which I have always had my doubts. 

My mother never entered a Catholic church as an adult, having been raised in that faith by her fervent-believer mother. She rejected Catholicism as a religion, having been betrayed as a child by one of its priests. But that didn’t stop her from sending her son to a Catholic elementary school when it was the best option in New York City in 1956. When the headmaster asked her why they should accept her son, she answered, “You may have lost my soul, Father, but you can still gain Christopher’s.” 

She maintained a life-long odd respect for the clergy, given her early abuse. I can see her almost genuflect, her eyes lowered when meeting the Reverend Mother of my middle school, St. Hilda’s. And she adored Pope John almost as much as she loved President Kennedy. 

When we were children, Easter and Christmas were celebrated with almost equal fervor. We did go to church and church school, but it was a Unitarian church where we learned about many of the world religions and were schooled in social justice. Our minister was a colleague of Martin Luther King Jr. and marched with him and others in Selma, AL.

Maybe my mother saw the holidays as a way to connect us with our culture. Or maybe she just liked the pomp of Easter clothes and Christmas trees. I always had a new dress and patent leather Mary Janes to wear on Easter Sunday. We had Easter baskets filled with hand-dyed eggs and chocolate bunnies. When we lived in Pittsburgh, she bought us Easter chicks that lived longer than expected and still had pink and blue feathers as they grew. As a single working mother in the 1950s, she struggled to provide for us the way she did. But we never felt under-privileged.

My mother navigated her conscience with ease. Celebrating Easter was about us, not the church. My granddaughter Rosie has a conflicted soul for a grandmother. I will give her an Easter basket and celebrate Christmas with her. (I do celebrate the birth of the great philosopher, Jesus of Nazareth.) But I don’t want to betray my beliefs either. When I raised her mother and uncle, I took pains to take them to church on Christmas so they could understand what all the hoopla was about. Without a strong religious background, they never followed any religion themselves. I didn’t really expect them to.

But they remember celebrating festive Easter brunches with old friends, and the dozens of eggs we dyed and painted, the trips to LiLac Chocolates on Christopher Street to pick out Easter bunny candies and marzipan. 

This year, I will prepare a modest family brunch on Easter Sunday and a basket of treats (non-candy) for young Rosie. I’m calling it the Rising of the Hellebores, for my favorite spring flower, the Lenten Rose.