Easter means change.

Without the obvious Resurrection, springtime metamorphosis references, I must state that Easter 2011 thoroughly changed me.

Should I thank the youthfrontiers.org Respect Retreat 2 days before? I should. May I remember the friends and family and acupuncture that have allowed me to slough off Fibromyalgia and excess pounds and bad moods? Of course. (Still, I should remember the effect dropping sugar out of one’s diet has; I thank myself for good choices, too.)

But only the challenge to do something new everyday has changed me so significantly. Let’s see a sampling of what I have accomplished:

• Facebook page. I still cringe that I have one, as I seem to be the only person in America who remembers when facebooks were actual books that East coast college freshmen received after orientation in August. Even then, the facebooks (lowercase) acted as a meat market in a Xerox-published booklet. However, I find this connection to my friends and family, our being scattered so violently from each other by jobs and marriages and suburban promises, to be refreshing and comforting.

• “Going out.” I now try to venture to new bars, restaurants, or cultural exhibits at least three times per week. That means I have left my home (in actuality, my couch) about 12 times this month. This difference is huge. I did not join the Minneapolis scene 12 times in the last 2 years. Then: Why would I go anywhere? I don’t know those people, and everything I need is at home. Now: I would love to go! I don’t know those people, so I would like to expand my wisdom beyond my home! (Note the exclamation points. Those are new, too.)

• Pilates. The week before Easter, I joined three Community Ed health classes in my area: reformer pilates, core pilates, and “When Pigs Fly” yoga. Now, I was terrible at yoga. I fell, I struggled, I enjoyed the challenge, but ultimately, I left with a throbbing headache (from the heated studio?) each time. I am glad to be finished with that class. But the reformer and core pilates classes took me by my little hand and told me I was going to be ok. The subtly of the movements and the obvious, physical appearance changes have let me know that Joseph Pilates is my anachronistic friend; it is as if he knew I would need him. I am a convert.

So many changes in such a tiny time frame have built in me a sense of quiet satisfaction. Even reflecting on that sentence gives pause: I have been quiet. I am satisfied. Is my inner voice, my sense of self finally taking a more prominent priority in my outward nature? Seems that way. Am I reflecting too intensely and uncharacteristically somberly? Yeah, probably, but I’m having too much fun right now to notice.

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