Caryl drops: The Eggs

Yes, that’s my stone table in the country.  I was dashing back to the city earlier this week but knew my daughter and I would be returning for the weekend and wanted to have something evoking Easter to welcome us upon our arrival.  I love traditions; it’s the connective tissue for the generations and a momentary meditation amid our fast-paced modern life. I can recall with pleasure coloring eggs with my young children, hiding them wherever we were for the holiday (Grandma’s house, Maryl’s house, Florida, Jamaica).  Our family is scattered this year: two of us are in New York, the other two far-flung (Toronto, Prague), not to mention my daughters are 28 and 24.

Nevertheless, I pulled out the yellow wooden chickens my grandfather made for my mother and her sister more than 80 years ago.  I use them every year to hold the  hard-boiled eggs we’ve colored.  Then I remembered I hate coloring eggs! It’s messy and disappointing (ours never looks like Martha’s) and wasteful (you can’t eat them, right? I never have been quite clear about that.)

 Still eggs are widely used in all cultures as symbols of new life.  And you know, how we love new lives here at our website. So I broke out the eggs.  What do you think of the ones in the picture above?  They are made of chalk and I found them at a general store called Sickle’s in our country village.  At Second Lives, we love rituals, AND we really love short cuts!
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Oh—and one more thing, I’ve been meaning to remind you that April is National Poetry month.  If you go to Poets.org, you can register to have a poem a day sent to your email address every day. Like traditions, it’s a literary kind of connective tissue, an inspiring meditation.  Whether you celebrate Easter or Passover or just Spring, I wanted to send you a favorite poem from a favorite poet of mine to acknowledge the occasion and to thank you for stopping by in this busy world to spend a little time with us at Second Lives Club. It’s even about eggs.

With Thanks to the Field Sparrow, Whose Voice is so Delicate and Humble
Mary Oliver

I do not live happily or comfortably
With the cleverness of our times.
The talk is all about computers,
The news is all about bombs and blood.
This morning, in the fresh field,
I came upon a hidden nest.
It held four warm, speckled eggs.
I touched them.
Then went away softly,
Having felt something more wonderful
Than all the electricity of New York City.