Hippity Hop Hop

Wishing you a colorful day of high spirits and sunny skies.

[Artist unknown.]

Bunny Tutorial

At first glance I thought this child was reading to the furred crowd. Then I saw the pointing finger.

Do you think he’s giving the cottontails last-minute instructions about Easter?

[Artist unknown.]

It’s Ba-aaaack: The Big Egg Hunt

Easter’s on its way and London is once again festooned with colossal, artful eggs. I wrote last year about the inaugural event sponsored by Fabergé; this year, chocolate giant Lindt is sponsoring the Big Egg Hunt.

If you’re anywhere near London, please take advantage of this playful outdoor art exhibit.

[Pictured is one side of Equinox by Barbie Harrison.]

What the…?

Oh, right. Easter has arrived. What did the Big Bunny leave for you?

Wicked Warnings and Rabbit Reminiscences

“Don’t go into Mr. McGregor’s garden: your Father had an accident there; he was put in a pie by Mrs. McGregor.”
—from The Tale of Peter Rabbit by Beatrix Potter

As a child, I think I more readily took to heart the advice I read in my books than the advice my elders offered me. I wouldn’t have gone anywhere near Mr. McGregor’s garden, but I failed to listen to the adults who told me to “leave the baby bunny alone.”

How could I? The poor thing was orphaned in a tragic mowing accident, losing not only her mother but her siblings as well. I named her Rosie; I’ve no idea why. I cried for her loss and burst with happiness that she was to become part of our family. I placed her in a box and fashioned a little nest for her. I promised to protect her and nourish her and be her best pal. I pledged my undying devotion to her and, in the end, I killed her.

I didn’t mean to. If anyone had told me that I could fatally traumatize her simply by holding her too much, I didn’t hear it. More likely I was told to “let the bunny be”; the consequences weren’t specified.

I killed my one and only bunny—about the size of a mouse—with misplaced love. It was my first hard lesson in the ways of nature and the differences between the wild and the domesticated. I’m embarrassed to admit that subsequent lessons followed.

I eventually learned my place in the animals’ world. Rosie comes to mind often, but especially at Eastertime when bunnies are front and center. Though I grieve Rosie’s passing, I’m grateful for what she taught me.

[Pictured is Beatrix Potter with her leashed bunny. Drawing by Hans Hoffmann.]

For additional bunny-related posts on Lull, see “How to Make Everybunny Happy,” “Here Comes Peter Cottontail…” and “I.Q. Reexamined”; for previous Easter-related posts, see “It’s Déjà Vu All Over Again” and “The Marble Truth of Easter.”

“Hippity, Hoppity, Easter’s on Its Way…”

There’s something about eggs.

I don’t know what attracts me to them: their smoothness? their asymmetry? their promise of new life? Something about them seems like Hope to me.

In kidhood, I had a large tin egg illustrated with Peter Cottontail scenes which, with enough rotations of the handcrank, would play a tinny version of “Here Comes Peter Cottontail.” I no longer have the musical oddity, but it comes to mind each Easter.

Last weekend, I happened upon some eggs of a different kind. They’re part of The Fabergé Big Egg Hunt and charity auction in London—grand in scale, unique in design, a few even falling into the “exquisite” category. Each of the 200 eggs was created by an artist, architect, jeweler, or designer to benefit Action for Children and Elephant Family. These eggs, of course, led me to people and places and loveliness that I hadn’t known existed.

Take a gander yourself and see where the eggs take you. (If you’re anywhere in or near London, you must go see them. I’ll be jealous, but that’s okay.)

[Pics from top to bottom: “Caeruleus & The Good Egg” by Rhea Thierstein, and “Pandora” (dinosaur hatchling) by Martin Aveling.]

Wishing You An Eggstra Special Day…

The Marble Truth of Easter

As joy envelops those observing Easter, the pastel colors and promise of resurrection can leave a bittersweet taste with those suffering from grief and loss. Here’s a twist on today’s holiday, a perspective that really spoke to me.

Easter

is my season
of defeat.

Though all
is green

and death
is done,

I feel alone.
As if the stone

rolled off
from the head

of the tomb
is lodged

in the doorframe
of my room,

and everyone
I’ve ever loved

lives happily
just past

my able reach.
And each time

Jesus rises
I’m reminded

of this marble
fact:

they are not
coming back.

by Jill Alexander Essbaum, from the January 2011 issue of Poetry
[Painting by Abbott H. Thayer.]

It’s Déjà Vu All Over Again*

I’m writing this longhand on the edge of “Possum Highway,” on high alert to protect the pooch from the skunks and opossums who frequent this stretch of our yard. It’s nearly 4 am on Easter Sunday, the hour I would have risen as a child to peek out my bedroom door for evidence of the Easter Bunny’s visit. Now, it’s the hour of watching people return from the clubs, listening to hawks search for breakfast, and waiting for a decent time to phone my husband so he can carry our hound up the three flights of stairs to our apartment. Just the start of another typical day at Lull HQ.

Three drops of water glisten on our Japanese snowdrop tree. Gravity pulls them into the squill below, one by one. The hubbub of human activity has ceased and the pooch and I have a rare starlit sky and predawn hush all to ourselves.

The pooch received a death knell this week from our vet. She’ll be 14 next month—the same age my precious first cat was when a vet sounded the death knell for her back in 1998. Kidney failure was the culprit for the feline. She would last a few more months or so with “juicing” (daily injections of subcutaneous fluids), but old age was taking her, claimed the vet.

And then, quite unintentionally, we had a pooch in our pantry (that’s where we kept the Spotted Thing initially until she and the White Thang got accustomed to each other). My first cat and our first dog became pals at first stare.

At the next health exam, the cat surprised the vet with perfect test scores—no signs of kidney disease. And she continued that way until she was a month shy of her 24th birthday, when cancer abruptly took her from us and from her canine best friend. Had I not been hopeful about the feline’s recovery, had I not been willing to spend the effort and money in sustaining her life back when she was 14, we would have missed 10 great years of her companionship.

“Never give out while there is hope; but hope not beyond reason, for that shows more desire than judgment.”
—William Penn

Could the pooch be in the same situation? Could she be nursed through this painful stretch? Yes, I understand the pooch is a much larger creature, which puts her years beyond the cat at this point. I understand the potential dire outcome of her current state of health. But how many pets are too soon given up on, too soon euthanised? And who would deny me hope?

It’s Resurrection Day for those who celebrate it. For me, it’s a renewal of optimism.

* Headline hails from Yogi Berra.

Here Comes Peter Cottontail…