Tradition

Coloring eggs this year was different.  No one splatted an egg.  None of the eggs became the dreadful gray color that results from soaking it in every dye bath on the table over and over.  No one cried.  Everything was pleasant and catastrophe free.  What does this mean?   I no longer have children under age three.  While I watched my children and a friend color eggs I thought about time’s passage and traditions. 

The Collins World English Dictionary entry offered at dictionary.com gave the following non-religion specific meanings.

1.  the handing down from generation to generation of the same customs, beliefs, etc.
2.  the body of customs, thoughts, practices, etc. belonging to a particular country, people, family, or institution over a relatively long period
3.  a specific custom or practice of long standing    

I enjoy the colorful dunking of eggs.  I remember my own childhood in its vinegar smell and subsequent eggs salad sandwiches.  It is a practice I’m passing from generation to generation.  But this year I questioned, “Why?” 

Curious, I looked into the egg tradition.  An excerpt from religioustolerance.org offered lore from Ancient Saxons.  “Eostre was the Saxon version of the Germanic lunar goddess Ostara.   Her feast was on the full moon following vernal equinox -- almost identical calculation as for Christian Easter in the west.   One legend associated with Eostre was that she found an injured bird on the ground one winter.   To save its life, she transformed it into a hare.   But ‘the transformation was not a complete one.   The bird took the appearance of a hare but retained the ability to lay eggs . . . the hare would decorate these eggs and leave them as gifts to Eostre.’ ” 

MSN.com offered different possibilities for eggs’ association with Easter stating “eggs have long been associated with birth and fertility.   Their abundance at Easter symbolizes the renewal of both a religious savior and the natural world.   In addition, several Christian sects used to forbid (and some still do) eating eggs during Lent.   After spending over a month egg-free, observers celebrated by eating the no-longer-forbidden food.”

In all my years of Easter eggs neither explanation had ever been presented.  Dyeing and hunting eggs at Easter is just something we do.  How is it that some traditions – like Easter eggs – span so very many generations.  (Isn’t it interesting what actions become traditions?  Makes me wonder what things fell by the way side.)  Does knowing where this tradition may have come from change it for me?  More importantly for me the tradition is the cement that holds memories together, bonds the family of me as a child to the family of myself as a parent.  Perhaps this annual activity will offer my kids the same connection should they continue to color Easter eggs in their adulthood.  I feel somewhere in repetition of things our predecessors did over a long period of time we find our own way.    

Anger

I feel anger in varying degrees.  I have myself, kids, a spouse, parents, friends, teachers, drivers on the street, abandoners of shopping carts, people who don’t park between the lines, criminals who harm others, leaders who swindle and cheat . . . a myriad of folks with whom I am in relationship.  As humans in community we validly feel wrath.  People may wrong us, treat us unjustly, and perpetrate antagonisms that we cannot control.  And we feel anger. 

The Collins English Dictionary 10^th edition 2009 defines anger as both noun and a verb. 
1.  (noun) a feeling of great annoyance or antagonism as the result of some real or supposed grievance; rage; wrath.
2.  (verb) to make angry; enrage

The entry for anger at dictionary.com had a source, the Bible Dictionary, I had not seen with any other words I have researched there.  Easton’s 1897 Bible Dictionary defined anger as “the emotion of instant displeasure on account of something evil that presents itself to our view.  In itself it is an original susceptibility of our nature, just as love is, and is not necessarily sinful.  It may, however, become sinful when causeless, or excessive, or protracted (Matt. 5:22; Eph. 4:26; Col 3:8).  As ascribed to God, it merely denotes his displeasure with sin and with sinners (Ps. 7:11)”

Fascinating!  Anger ranks mention in a Bible dictionary.  As I read the entry I felt harmony with the words – anger is as natural as love.  We don’t need to punish ourselves for feeling angry.  We should be angry at greed, at people who act inappropriately toward others, try to deceive or harm, disrespect us, or act abusively.  Anger can motivate us toward positive change.  It is the possibility that anger becomes excessive or drawn out that makes trouble.  If anger morphs into self-righteousness or hate it becomes toxic, not toward the offenders but toward our own selves. 

We can acknowledge anger and then let it dissipate.  Dissipation is a challenge that takes time, self reflection and sometimes separation from a person or situation.  Letting wrath dissolve is not saying the wrongdoing was okay, it’s just letting it pass.  Some anger dissolves faster than others.  I’m usually done being angry with my kids by bedtime.  Other anger is still healing. 

Most of my anger is minor.  Some of it has helped me teach others how to treat me better.  But I’m pondering times of big anger.  What happens if anger becomes all I feel?  Interferes with my ability to have positive feelings?  It can be excruciating to feel wronged.  Often there is no apology to start the process of anger resolution.  Sometimes perpetrators go unpunished.  What then?  I can choose not to like it, not deem it acceptable and then endeavor (albeit with difficulty) not to let anger keep me stuck in destructive fury. 

Age

I celebrated my 42^nd birthday Saturday in New York City.  Two decades ago I promised to visit New York for my 40^th birthday.  Years later, my 40^th birthday turned out to be Easter weekend.  My young family had other important things to do.  By my own choice the NYC birthday went unexecuted (a failed plan, remember February 7 post?).  My dancing, shopping, late night NYC trip morphed into a family trip to Lady Liberty, FAO Schwartz and the corner hot dog stand. 

Dictionary.com offers twenty-two entries for age.  The first four entries paraphrased fit my purposes:  the length of time during which a being or thing has existed; a period of human life, measured by years from birth, usually marked by a certain stage or degree of mental or physical development and involving legal responsibility and capacity; the particular period of life at which a person becomes naturally or conventionally qualified or disqualified for anything; one of the periods or stages of human life

Nowhere in the definitions does it say anything about moving from good years into bad ones.  I’m sifting through thoughts about age and marching through and beyond my forties. 

Some things I accept.  Age is a natural progression from birth to death.  A reduction of digestive stamina can occur with increased years encouraging me to avoid late night pizza.   Wrinkles and gray hair happen as people age.  My recovery from sleep deprivation can no longer be achieved with Coca-Cola and a Moon Pie.      

What I do not accept is that the facts are all downhill.  I feel culture tell me that aging past forty drags me on a downward spiral from youth (beauty) to old age (unbeauty).  I’m fighting not to let this idea take root because it is not authentic to my experience.  I see family and friends in their forties, fifties, sixties and beyond who are unquestionably beautiful.  Wrinkles on my own face continue to surprise me.  But they are only a problem if I say so not because they are inherently good or bad.  I have a hard time seeing veins in my hands.  I struggle to train myself not to see my aging hands as unpleasant.  But the work for me lies not in figuring out how to make the veins go away (although it does cross my mind), but to understand that veins and being older are not unbeautiful.  It is work to shape my thoughts. 

Going from youth to old age is not a trip from beauty to unbeauty, it is just a trip filled mostly with the unpredictable.  Much like the fact and fiction I accepted with my NYC trip - that a single party trip was better than a family tourist trip - I am learning that ideas I thought were certain about middle age may not be truths. 

Planting

Pale, tiny leaves from seeds I planted in clay pots with my children are poking up from the dirt.  Securely placed beneath purchased potting soil on the porch, the silent seeds have been a source of wonder for two weeks. 

We selected colorful envelopes from a garden display.  We read the directions on the packets.  We scooped black dirt dotted with green beads of fertilizer.  We poked holes the depth of one knuckle and dropped seeds into them (except in the case of teensy thyme which was a sprinkle and cover task).  Oh, to look at those specks in our palms - smaller than a grain of rice and totally different from one another - and trust that they will become basil, thyme, and flowers is an amazing thing.  We watered gently. 

According to the Online Etymology Dictionary, published in 2010 by Douglas Harper, the verb plant - meaning “put in the ground to grow” - is from Old English plantain, from Latin plantare, from planta. 

The seeds I planted on a sunny southern spring day with my children are more than the herbs and flowers they will become.  They are a respect for the unknown and a memory of us together.  I put such forethought and presence into three potted plants on my patio, how much time am I giving to other things I am planting?  What else am I planting now for the future?  Into what ground do I put hopeful seeds?  What will my efforts grow into? 

I hope that I plant love of knowledge by teaching my children to value learning and their education by doing their best work each day at school as well as reading and searching for their own interests intellectually outside of school.  I want to plant seeds of respect for all people when we play soccer, win or lose.  I am hoping that in being a financially responsible person I will plant seeds of sustainability for myself as I move into old age.  I try to plant healthy respect for the physical self as I encourage my kids to try new foods, eat the green stuff, and thank our bodies for continuing to carry us as we push ourselves to finish something like a tiring walk from a fireworks display to our car.  I want to sprinkle seeds of prosperity as I pray for the leadership of our country.  I long to sow love for Earth by making less trash.   

What soil do I fertilize when I repeat gossip?  What do I hope to grow if I stomp the accelerator to speed through a fresh red light?  What am I planting if I do not honor my own need for creative space?  What roots may sprout from the words I choose to scatter? 

I feel certain that everyone’s seed selection and soil is different.  But one thing I know for sure, we are all growing and planting something.    

Rain

I slept splendidly through a night of steady, cold rain and awoke to a deluge of a day.  My thoughts seem squishy and damp, just like this day.  Ruminating a recently written poem feels like the entirety of my morning’s musing.

The Rain

Where is the green growing place in which dreams plant abundant offerings, food

desire.  Tomatoes ripe red or possibly pomegranates fat with scarlet seeds that tempt

Persephone tied to the underworld with a mate to whom much has been promised

within whose ebony root cellar sprawl permanently entangled shoots in shared soil

after pollination rise sprigs of new life.  Figs feel more compelling than apples.  Figs

should have been the forbidden fruit trickling from woman’s hunger dropping seeds

into grass amid flowers.  Tulips budding hot fuscia array guarding purple white turnips

forming unseen beside squash and eggplant and beans, sensible vegetables of lesser

temptation but also in need of water.  As for rain no one knows if it will come or not.

Equinox

Last night at 23:31 Earth was for a moment standing straight up with its axis pointing neither away from nor toward the sun – at an equinox.  This equinox marks spring for the Northern Hemisphere (vernal equinox), fall for the Southern Hemisphere (autumnal equinox).  Whatever season we are heading into we Earth dwellers were all held in a moment of balance between an equal day and night. 

Wikipedia explains that equinox occurs twice a year when the center of the Sun is in the same plane as Earth’s equator.  The name “equinox” is from Latin aequus (equal) and nox (night) denoting that night is of equal length north and south of the equator.  An equinox happens each year at two specific moments in time (rather than two whole days) around March 20/21 and September 22/23 each year.  On a day of the equinox, the center of the Sun spends a roughly equal amount of time above and below the horizon at every location on the Earth.

A time of balance sounds great.  Our healthy human physiology thrives in balance.  Balance of alkalinity versus acidity.  Insulin and glucagon are used to keep the amount of blood glucose in our bodies in balance.  Our kidneys work all day to maintain salt and ion levels in homeostasis.  When we are out of balance physically the body will manifest illness.  Our physical bodies are a complicated system working constantly for balance.

But what of our mental and emotional need for balance?  Imbalance in the non-physical self can manifest illness as well.  In the natural passage of time a moment to be in equilibrium benefits us physically and emotionally.  At times the psychological quest feels like a seesaw relentlessly rising up and falling down so that I’m either riding high or crashing suddenly onto my behind as if someone jumped off the other end.  Other times, mental balance feels to me just a moment that passes, much like the moment of equinox.  I can get there, but I cannot stay.  Work and play.  Expenditure and rest.  Eating well versus eating junk.  Sleeping and staying up late.  Exercising and not exercising.  Knowing the “right” thing to do for balance and actually doing it are two different challenges.

I know I feel best when I am able to keep my mind in balance.  Certainly I’m hoping to do better than just two moments a year in a state of balance.  Perhaps this marking of the Earth’s equal posture can stand as a seasonal reminder of our need for balance, our need to be aware of keeping certain life things in suitable relationship as we mark the forward passage of time.

Dormant

My lawn is brown.  Stubbly sticks of centipede grass appear dead.  This is disturbing to my four year old daughter.  I know in a matter of weeks green will come, along with growing and mowing of grass.  This is something I believe because I have seen it come to pass year after year.  She does not have this experience.      

Dictionary.com’s first six entries for dormant are

1.  lying asleep or as if asleep; inactive, as in sleep; torpid:  The lecturer’s shout woke the dormant audience.
2.  a state of rest or inactivity; inoperative; in abeyance:  The project is dormant for the time being.
3.  biology in a state of minimal metabolic activity with cessation of growth, either as a reaction to adverse conditions or as part of an organism’s normal annual rhythm
4.  undisclosed; unasserted:  dormant musical talent
5.  (of a volcano) not erupting
6.  botany temporarily inactive:  dormant buds; dormant seeds

Today, as with most of my musings, roots with questions.  How to explain dormant to a child?  My daughter has been in extreme physical growth for her entire four years of life.  A state of minimal metabolic activity has yet to happen to her!  She has no articulate memory of past year’s winter changing to spring.  Perhaps next year she will remember.  We older humans, as creatures of biology, certainly remember the normal annual rhythms of nature and have felt them within ourselves, too.  Times of growth, times of cessation, times of renewal.  In earlier periods greater numbers of people lived connected to the cycles of seasons and were perhaps more aware of their own changes parallel to those of the earth.  Now, as we have artificial light, alarm clocks, and twenty-four hour access to all sorts of foods from all over the world all year long we may not see clearly seasons of plenty and sparse except in the color of lawns and shrubbery.


What are the lessons of dormant?  Waiting and wondering are part of living.  We are participants in normal annual rhythm.  Finding oneself latent for a while is of benefit.  Allowing oneself to rest is natural and essential.  The dark times, the times that may look like sleep, can be a cessation of growth.  Cessation of growth is needed to store up for future growth and rest from past growth (sometimes painful).  We must at times be in the dark where there is knowledge to gain.  Being dormant is temporary.  Inactivity is not beneficial forever.


Brown to budding to blooming to buzzing to bearing fruit then dropping to dormant to go around again.  Eventually every life form, be it plant or person, is called forth to grow whether the child believes it will happen or not.   

Explaining Dormant

Tiny peeps from a back seat, why is the grass brown?

It is not dead, deep down it is alive in its roots, shoots waiting
waiting for the sun to warm us; we are tilted away now, our axis
leaning into the dark to let time teach change.  It will come
green again.