Last night I was invited to make pysanky and take part in the process of decorating Easter eggs in the ancient Ukrainian tradition. It's something we did as a family, religiously, every year at this time, when I was a kid. I can't believe I forgot how much I loved it.
A small group of friends gathered around the dining room table of my great friend V. If it weren't for her, I'd carelessly let a lot more of my childhood slip away.
Suddenly there they were: all the tools in front of me, including the familiar texture and smell of beeswax. We had pencils, kistki, packets of dye, candles, eggs, and V's mother's book of patterns.
After a quick YouTube tutorial to remind us of the basics, and a few swigs of wine to steady the hand, we hunched over to sketch our plans across the curved landscape of our eggs. And suddenly there we were: the next generation of Babas.
Simple exercise. Powerful, restorative, grounding experience. Pal E kept remarking how soothing, cathartic it felt. Add to that, the tremendous bonding feeling that comes with tapping into the creative force in great company, and releasing a latent desire to connect with something familiar, cultural -- a part of your genetic make up.
We agreed we shouldn't save pysanky just for this time of year. Why not gather and do this more often?Maybe we will, maybe we won't. Either way, I'm building more recent memories now.
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