I have a lot of early sensory memories. I used to say that my earliest memory was the feeling of the black and white stones for my grandparents baduk game. I would put one hand into each jar holding the cool pieces, letting the smoothness of the stones roll through and around my fingers. But as I was dying eggs yesterday, the smell of the vinegar brought an old memory up to the surface.
I remembered a room with stone walls and women dressed in black and wrapped in aprons standing over large pots of swirling dark, red brew. Trails of steam rise up and caress the faces of the women. Beads of sweat and tendrils of hair stick to them. The whole room and the hallway beyond smell sharp with the tang of vinegar. A large spoon dips something out of a pot and it is a beautiful, deep red egg.
Holy Thursday is the day we as Orthodox prepare our eggs for the coming celebration of Pascha. Our eggs are red, and only red. Red to symbolize the blood of Christ, the cracking of its shell representing new life, and the destruction of the gates of Hades--the conquering of death. I remember polishing each egg with olive oil until they shone like rubies. They would be wrapped with a koulourakia (a braided Greek cookie) and lovingly placed in baskets to be blessed and distributed to the church congregation after the Pascha vigil. If we had time during the flurry of Holy Week, my mother and I would sit down and carefully write "Christ is Risen!" or "Christos Anesti" in gold pen. My brother would be very fancy and inscribe Byzantine crosses with "ICXC NIKA" on them---"Jesus Christ Conquers."
After Vigil, we collect the shells of the blessed eggs to be burned. And all that Bright Week, there were eggs on the table to be cracked with the joyous proclamation that Christ, was indeed, risen.
This Holy Week in the time of quarantine has been a little different. We have our services in the quiet of our living room prayer corner instead of the still darkness of the church. My girls sleepily sit or stand next to us in their pajamas instead of in their scarves and dresses, but on Holy Thursday, we prepare our eggs.
I wasn't able to get the particular Greek red dye that makes the gorgeous ruby eggs, but we did it the old traditional way with onion skins, beet root and vinegar. Steam swirled in the kitchen and the whole house smelled of that familiar sour tang.
The quarantine, while different, has not been without its blessings. It has made me so immensely grateful for the health of my family and friends. It is a blessing to be able to live comfortably on our farm, to not be afraid of financial burden, when or what we will eat, how we will manage from day to day. My thoughts are prayers go out to all my brothers and sisters in Christ who are struggling. I pray for your health and happiness, and the blessed struggle in this life into the next.
I was reminded of Nicholas Samaras---I had the great honor of hearing him read a poem from his book Hands of the Saddlemaker when he came to speak at OCF (Orthodox Christian Fellowship) when I was in college. It describes his experience of Pascha in the cancer ward of his local hospital, and I thought it quite fitting for what many have been experiencing these days. I have shared it below:
Easter in the Cancer Ward by Nicholas Samaras - from his book Hands of the Saddlemaker
Because it has been years since my hands
have dyed an egg or I've remembered my father with color in his beard,
because my fingers have forgotten
the feel of wax melting on my skin,
the heat of paraffin warping air,
because I prefer to view death politely from afar,
I agree to visit the children's cancer ward.
In her ballet-like, butterfly slippers, Elaine pad-pads
down the carpeted hall. I bring the bright bags,
press down packets of powdered dye, repress my slight unease.
She sweeps her hair from her volunteer's badge, leaves
behind her own residents' ward for a few hours release.
The new wing's doors glide open onto great light. Everything is
vibrant and clattered with color. Racing
up, children converge, their green voices rising.
What does one do with the embarrassment of staring
at sickness? Suddenly, I don't know where to place
my hands. Children with radiant faces reach out thinly,
clamor for the expected bags, lead
us to the Nurses' kitchen. Elaine introduces me and reads
out a litany of names. Some of the youngest wear
old expressions. The bald little boy loves Elaine's long mane of hair
and holds the healthy thickness to his face, hearing
her laugh as she pulls him close.
"I'm dying," he says and Elaine tells him she is, too:
too much iron silting her veins. I can never accept that truth
yet, in five months, she'll slip away in a September
night--leaving her parents and me to bow our heads, bury her
in a white wedding gown, our people's custom.
But right now, I don't know this. Right now, we are young,
still immortal and the kids fidget, crying
out for their eggs. Elaine divides them into teams;
I lay out the tools for the operation.
I tell them all how painting Easter eggs used to be done
in the Old Country. Before easy dyes were common,
villagers boiled onion peels, ladled eggs
into pots so the shells wouldn't break.
They'd scoop them out, flushed a brownish-
red, and the elders would polish and polish
them with olive oil, singing hymns for the Holy Thursday hours.
The children laugh and boo when I try to sing. The boys swirl
speckles of color into hot water, while the girls
time the eggs. When a white-faced boy asks from nowhere
if I believe in Christ and living forever,
I stop stirring the mix, answer, "Yes, I do."
I answer slowly
and when I speak, my own voice deafens me.
The simple truth blooms like these painted flowers
riding up the bright kitchen-walls. I come
to belief. I know that much. Still, what a man may
do with belief demands more than what he says.
Now, the hot waters are stained a rich red. The eggs have
boiled and cooled. To each set of hands, Elaine gives
one towel, three eggs. I pass the pot of melted paraffin,
show these children how to take the eggs and dip them in
and out. While the wax hardens to an opaque film, we hum
Christos Aneste and the room bustles, ajabber
with speech. Holding pins firmly, we scratch out mad
designs where the color will fill. Small, flurried hands
etch and scrim the shells. Everyone's fingers whorl
and scratch in names, delicate and final.
Edging the hall's threshold, an April's allow-
ance of sun filters through tinted windows. Faces furrow
in solemn concentration. Looking to Elaine, my thoughts clamor
for what is redemptive in illness, for having
a Credo to hold these people to me. Etchings
done, everyone immerses the waxy eggs in the pooled
dye. We ooh together when transfigured eggs are spooned
out, wiped and dried on the counters. Soft wax
is peeled gingerly, flecked away; more oohs for the tracks
of limned lines, testimonial names.
We burnish the shells with olive oil for a fine sheen.
For a moment, the cultivated, finished eggs hush
the room. Then, every child goes wild in a rush
to compare, to show the nurses, each
other. The bald boy taps my waist. Lined up and speech-
less, they present me with a bright, autographed
egg, communally done. Elaine makes me close my eyes and laughs
when small limbs push at my back to follow
her. They shove my hands in the cool, wet, red dye. The hollow-
eyed girl squeals till tears streak from her laughing.
Another child cries, "You'll never get it off!" And today, I don't want to. Today,
we've painted eggs a lively color, not caring
about the body's cells and the cells' incarceration.
I lift my arms to embrace Elaine, dab her nose and chin.
And my hands are vivid red. My hands are bloody with resurrection
and we are laughing.
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