This is how the world keeps changing  

Two weeks ago, hearing the rhythm of small feet on the roof of my bedroom cottage named Paraiso, I realize this is music I have not heard in a while. From my window, still in bed, I can see a tiny light squirrel jumping onto the nearby massive oak trunk. From here solid moss-covered branches are curving and reaching high. The little one looks almost naked, perhaps she is on her first outing – but she is scampering up into the heights. Aha, a new batch of squirrels is ready to inhabit trees and garden. But raising a squirrel family is not as easy as in the old days. The oaks have become very thin during the drought years. And each year one or more hawks are patrolling the neighborhood with their territorial whistling calls. Despite the crows’ loud ruckus, the hawks will not be deterred. They are busy keeping the squirrel population down. It used to be over the top, everyone complaining about the squirrels ravaging fruit trees. Now squirrel acrobats appear, then are gone… till some are again flying and sailing, then none... Yesterday two youngsters chasing after each other, racing at lightning speed high up into the canopy, flying into the sky…  

After a long string of historic winter storms, today I am finally back to getting lost in the vigorous green of the garden. Trying to pull sneaky delicate pop weed before it pops its seed pods. To my amusement and dismay some of the delicate seeds are exploding into my face before I even can pull them, the slightest touch will set them off. How clever is that. Around me buzzing aliveness, invisible creatures and me, everyone enjoying the warm sun. Worms abundant in the very wet soil – all is still wet. And all is ready to explode, sprout, push up, intertwine, find light, warmth and sun, show off their blossoms and flowers. Above me, jays, northern flickers, thrushes, finches, sparrows, bushtits, and many more birds I cannot name are singing their songs. So much hope is vibrating, the damp air is dense with promise and renewal. 

 

Gänseblümchen 

 

This quiet fresh Sunday, being amidst wildflowers and grasses, I am reminded of the sophisticated treasure hunts my father – an outspoken atheist – would design on Ostersonntag for us three siblings. Definitely no other kids in Germany had a special Easter Sunday like us. (Looking back, it still stuns me: how blessed we were, not having money, my parents are inventing and creating miracles out of nothing.) Somewhere deep in a forest far away from other humans, deciphering handwritten hidden clues, climbing trees, crawling into fallen tree trunks, my brother, sister and I are finally guided by Papa’s coded notes to a clearing. A sunlit green meadow – eine grüne Wiese – with wildflowers, light blue Vergissmeinnicht (forget-me-nots), yellow Butterblumen (buttercups), Gänseblümchen, and tall grasses. And my mother has laid out a big cloth with a spread of bread, margarine, pickles, cheese, carefully hand painted hard-boiled eggs, Hefekuchen (brioche), and perhaps some very few precious chocolate eggs. Papa resting on a blanket, smiles at us, proud we made it. We know we arrived in paradise. 

During the hunt we have gathered precious Klappereier – Mama’s invention. Blown-out eggs their tops slightly cut open and glued shut with colorful thin paper, Seidenpapier. These fragile beautifully decorated egg shells are filled with clumps of oats and nuts roasted in butter and sugar. Back in those days yet unknown, our Mama’s home-made “granola.” Shaking the egg creates a delicate rumbling sound which is still in my ear to this day. Her invention of shaker-eggs without the plastic. Cupping the colorful eggshell in my hand, it fits so perfectly, then finger tips piercing the pink or blue tissue, and picking out the sweet treat. I will never forget the feel of this delicate cup in my palm, its light weight betraying the depth of meaning. My own Klapperei – filled with delicious sweet crunch, food of the gods. I feel rich, flooded with delight and happiness. Exploring the meadow, love in hand, knowing this is heaven, no doubt.  

This year's abundant forget-me-nots – meine Wiese mit Vergissmeinnicht

My tribute to Klappereier is a fading song. As a kid I would keep the empty shells for months. Perhaps, somewhere or someday a young desperate mother and father with little means are inventing a similar artful and playful adventure and treat for their children, handmade from the simplest natural ingredients – and this unique song of love is blooming for and in their children, echoing and radiating out into the world, way past a particular Sunday....

This is how the world keeps changing