My baba made Easter eggs like this when I was little. She wrote with beeswax, not ink, and drew these traditional images symbolizing rebirth and the abundance of spring. A spring that Ukrainians in their homeland, tragically, cannot celebrate today.
The memory I hold of my baba—my grandmother—an elderly, warm-hearted woman—is a treasure. The fragrance of Paska, the Easter bread baking in the oven, filled her home. She sat quietly in the sanctity of her own kitchen, dipping into beeswax and dyes to recreate these traditional designs with a steady hand. Hours spent on such a delicate canvas!
Her stylus wasn’t a fancy model like I see online today. Hers was a scrap piece of wood about the length of a pen, which served as the handle, and it was worn smooth. She’d tied a sharp metal point to the wood with string, and the instrument was encrusted with wax from many years of use.
She pricked a tiny hole at each end of the egg and blew out the contents. Her dyes came from her garden. She used beets for red, and onions for yellow, two sources I recall.
I am appalled and saddened at the tragic contrast to what Ukrainians in their homeland may undertake this Easter in their war-torn ravaged cities. This is a special Easter for us to remember our traditions and the blessings of freedom. The freedom to live and write and rejoice at the advent of spring.
Write your story, if you have dreamed of doing that. Have it in your hand in a small book working together with me and a small group of women for six weeks. Click the image below to join The Spring Writing Circle:
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