A big magic bunny that fills baskets with candy and toys, hiding eggs for the little kiddies to find . . . culture sure evolves in mysterious ways. It might have seemed fun when we were naive children with nothing better to do or think about, but nowadays, we’re pretty disillusioned to the whole charade, right? It’s just another holiday perfected by the American dream, a chance to capitalize on emotions, put a price on the priceless, and celebrate consumerism with a mass orgy glorified by a spiritual family label.
The magic’s gone.
I don’t have any kids, but I do have a family, and there are little ones. So I help hide a few green eggs in the bushes, some red and blue among the flowers, a few yellow ones up the trees where they’ll never be able to reach them, if they ever even look up and see them. Then I find a drink, kick back in a detached languor and watch the kids hunt, race past a few dozen well-hidden eggs to go for the one obvious one, laughing, excited, ignorant to the bleak mediocrity. It’s disgusting, really.
No, not the kids. Me.
Actually, not me, but that picture of soulless, jaded indifference. That supercilious attitude of “maturity.” The magic’s gone because we’ve ousted it. We’ve pushed it away. There’s no room for magic in the harsh realities of an adult’s world.
Well, actually, there is. Every now and then.
Seeing Easter with a Child’s Eyes
In my family we’ve made a tradition. We gathered all the plastic eggs we could get our hands on and after the adults hid them for the kids, I spent two hours following the little ones around on their epic quest of discovery. I’d give hints, or even riddles when I could think of them, and sometimes I’d step in front of a half-concealed egg and play innocent until a kid finally caught me and got behind me. When all the eggs were found, or at any rate nearly all, then the best part came: the kids hid the eggs, and the adults looked.
See, it’s not about finding the eggs. It’s about finding and recovering the thrill of the game, the sparkling imagination of childhood that made mountains out of molehills and golden eggs out of plastic. It’s about rediscovering the fun, the excitement, the joy, the enchantment. It’s about creating memories, capturing a warm-fuzzy feeling that will stick with us all even when the kids have grown up and forgotten what egg hunts were like, just like I nearly did there.
Rediscovering the Wonder
Halloween, Christmas, Easter—they’re all the same. They’ve all been distorted, and we’ve lost sight of the enchantment. We’ve forgotten why holidays meant so much to us when we were kids. We’ve lost our sense of wonder. Comes with age, I suppose.
So we can sit around and gripe about how holidays are being corrupted by consumerism, or we can do something about it
We can teach, nay, show, the next generations that there’s still magic, that there’s still wonder and enchantment in the special moments. We can give them memories that are founded on a lot more than toys and candy. They’re waiting for us to prove to them that holidays aren’t just for children, and I think a lot of us could stand to remember that, too.
Maybe they won’t remember the egg hunt; maybe the memories will fade. They might forget what we did for them, but they’ll never forget how we made them feel.