In spring folk traditions across the world, we find that eggs were revered as symbols of renewal, rebirth, and the delicate, hidden potential alive during this season. Eggs were buried in fields and gardens, given as gifts, braided into sweet breads, painted, planted with one’s dead in graveyards - - all charms toward nourishing new beginnings.
. . .
Today, I paint a single egg the color of menstrual blood and geraniums. I write a poem of protection, proliferation, and healing across the curve of the shell. I bury it beneath the tangle of wild Rose.
I sip an infusion of fresh Violet leaves to spur the thaw of this year’s grief held in my breasts and womb.
I nourish the roots of me--through the gift of Burdock and Dandelion--and move what no longer serves.
And I leave colorful bowls of fresh water on the hillside for the fox, deer, coyote, snake, songbirds, hawks, the early-to-wake bees and other tiny pollinators, and chipmunk.
Today, I invite you to plant a spell in your garden. Write a prayer for the slow ritual of healing. The moving of this year's grief. Collective integrity, gentle intention. Joy.
Or maybe you will boil a single egg. Paint a spell of thanks, protection, and fertility across its shell. Allow it to infuse. And then ingest—to embody—your magic.
Toward beginning, again —
