Witnesses to the Resurrection: Color on the Rise

chicoryBy Jim Perkinson, Detroit, MI

Resurrection shows up as color: the riot—bombastic or subtle—that is spring.  The oldest, most ancestral “return” from the grave is clearly the gift of plants—for millions of years now refusing to stay embalmed in earth.  Revealing every tomb as womb, disclosing soil—even dusty versions—as a compost deity!  Indeed, for the indigenous the globe over, the trash heap was the most ancient of shrines, the place where seeds and discards of every manner recombined into life. And Life, in every wild and insurgent upwelling shouts color. What hits the ear as percussion and polyrhythm, titillates the iris as shocking brightness. Red as wily ribaldry; green as svelte grammar; blue as primordial echo of grief or iridescent hint of the kiss of sky on water!   Tribal peoples have always known the truth that color is the first language of trance, of seeing beyond the surface of the present. The world over, resurrection-peoples have squeezed their resistance to the colonial into even so subtle an upsurge as chartreuse shoes and pupil-popping scarves.  In Detroit, Tyree Guyton makes paint a tool of spirit-war, pulling an entire neighborhood out of the grave.   Bronze-toned Jesus and purple chicory: signs of the same.  Irrepressible! Continue reading

Witnesses to the Resurrection: I know Hope in Clay

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Photo Credit: Denise Griebler

By Denise Griebler, Detroit, MI

I know hope in clay.
Soft and cold in my hands, I turn and pat wedge to ball.  A tender rhythmic caress.
Alongside radiator clangs and spews,
window pours in sunlight, together they warm my shoulder.
Sit and slap a mound of mud to wheel.
Breathe.  Lean in.  Center.
Who Knows what will rise up? Continue reading

Witnesses to the Resurrection

100_4998.JPGDuring Fridays in Easter we will be sharing reflections on where folks are seeing resurrection today. Please consider contributing and email it to lydiaiwk@gmail.com

By Kyle Mitchell, Cleveland, OH

I see resurrection happen as the silver maple in the front yard begins it’s spring ritual. Cold nights and warm days produce the mysterious freeze and thaw cycles that allow the sap to flow during the day. Participating in a tradition that began with the indigenous people of North America, I make a small hole in the tree which allows the sap to flow into my bucket during the day. When the buds on the tree “pop” and the sap stops flowing, I take what I have, make a little fire in the backyard, and boil it down to make maple syrup.

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