Eostre

The pursuit of perpetual spring.

Eostre (or Ostara) is the Anglo-Saxon goddess of spring, rebirth, and dawn. Folklore tells us that Eostre found a wounded bird on the edge of winter and turned him into a snow hare, ensuring his survival. The hare retained the ability to lay eggs from his former being. To show his gratitude to the goddess, the snow hare laid colorful eggs as gifts to Eostre.

If your children ask you a bunny lays eggs, that is how.

Albrecht Dürer Young Hare

Easter was the last holiday we had together as a family, with Gabe, just a few short weeks before he died. We had friends over and hid Easter eggs (that my lovely mother had stuffed with cash, much to the delight of the kiddos). I can still see Gabe sitting outside on the spring morning, drenched in the smell of the orange blossoms budding all around us as our children scattered around in delight. All was well, or at least it seemed to be.

I flip through the memories of those final days, focusing with all my might. Was there a sign? Was Gabe a wounded bird?

Memories are unreliable. Neuroscientists theorize that these little moments in time are stored in our consciousness in fragmented pieces, rather than in a single large filing cabinet. Every time we access a memory, our little neurons scurry around to different parts of the brain to grab each piece of the puzzle, reconstruct it, and then, when we are done with our recollection, put it all away. Each time we access a memory, it is changed. Never able to be completely restored to its original beauty. Layers of varnish, tattered edges, obscured colors, and the inconvenient passing of time oxidize what was once a freshly brushed painting.

Knowing this, I find my memories to be half-truths. Partly reliable, sometimes corroborated by other witnesses. Did he seem okay that day? Does anyone remember a broken wing?

Pictures on my phone show smiling children. Gabe with the dog. An easter dinner at our dining room table.

Easter Bounty from April 2022

Could I have called out to Eostre from my Germanic ancestry and transformed Gabe into a more sturdy snow hare so he could survive the rest of his winter?

We can’t know, because we don’t get those magical second chances told in folklore and legends. Our second chances are decidedly human. Our memories are faulty.

This Easter, we said goodbye to our beloved farm dog Otto. He was fighting for months to recover from kidneys that would not cooperate. His journey ended, but he did enjoy a few more months on the farm barking at coyotes, staving off the occasional roaming person, and protecting his flock and his new goat herd with what energy he had remaining.

Spring cannot exist without winter. Life, love, and happiness are not pursuits of the immortal. Rather, they are human quests. Life is precious because it is finite. We endear ourselves to others to survive the crushing weight of existence, to connect. To live in the pursuit of our own perpetual springtime.

This morning, my kids were visited by Eostre’s bunny, who left baskets waiting for them. Our family looks different now, but love and tenderness are not in short supply here at the farm. Matt, still tearful from his final good-bye to Otto, tells the children he loves them. They, in turn, see his pain and embrace him. We are caught in a whirlwind of loss and love that goes on and on.

We will hunt for eggs, we will sit around a table and eat a meal my mother has so thoughtfully prepared. No matter how many years pass, I will think of Gabe and wonder. I will wish for him, for my father, for my friends who have passed to be reborn, reanimated, just as they were in their prime. To crawl out of the winter of death and be transformed and plopped right down in the middle of their families’ holiday brunch.

So our brains will paint new memories, splice them apart, and store them so we can revisit them, imperfectly, at will. So we can hold hands, pet the dogs, introduce new lovers, new grandchildren, watch fathers and mothers embrace their children, and feel the warmth of the dawning springtime.