Episode 1: Egg Rolling!

Okay, so I know I said episode 1 would be a look at names and pseudonyms, and an explanation of why I've chosen Asta Greenwood to be mine, BUT... Easter was two days ago, and I tried to roll an egg down a hill but accidentally had a religious experience instead, so I've decided to heck with plans, and I'm going to write about that. Might be a long one! [Edit to add: it is, indeed, a long one. Settle in!]

But first, happy slightly belated recent holiday-of-choice to those of you who like that sort of thing! I hope it was full of your favourite thing, whatever makes you happy, be it chocolate, flowers, family dinners, friend hangouts, religious traditions, or having (hopefully) an extra day off.

Right. So. EGG ROLLING.
 
A few years ago, I discovered Starbank Park, my now-favourite park in Edinburgh (don't tell my other almost-favourite parks). Firstly in its favour, the name. What a glorious, magical name. Secondly, the park is half a giant grassy hill right beside the ocean, and half a hidden walled fairytale garden at the top that you can't really see is there until you're in it. When I say fairytale garden, I mean literally a fairytale garden, by the way - there's tiny doors in the trees and a fairytale trail and a plaque about how it was visited by Hans Christian Andersen once. There is also a free library impressively carved and painted into a TARDIS, because magic comes in many guises.

The Secret Garden was my favourite book for a long time as a kid, and I swear, this park is almost exactly how I imagined that garden. The only difference is instead of a fourth wall with a secret locked door, there's a house, and you can just walk right past it on either side to get in and out, which, honestly, at this age, is a lot more appealing than having to faff about with secret keys and hidden doors and/or tall ladders and potential trespassing charges.
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I especially like to visit Starbank in the spring because it looks like this:

I was visiting last week when I spied a sign. Traditional Egg Rolling and a service in the garden would take place Easter Sunday morning.

Traditional Egg Rolling sounded hilarious to me, having never heard of it. I said this to a British friend who seemed the tiniest bit defensive, despite my explaining it was a nice, adorable kind of hilarious. That comment (unsurprisingly, looking back) did not seem to help. But I'm sure many Canadian traditions I take for granted would seem equally adorably hilarious to Brits. It's the Honkwich Effect.

Easter Sunday, I woke up at sunrise, purely by chance. I glanced out the window and admired the precious dawn of a new day and the burgeoning of the blessed spring, and then I went back to sleep for a couple more hours, because sunrise happens far too early.

Later, at a reasonable 10am, I excitedly hopped on the bus, having no idea what I was about to witness. I didn't want to look it up beforehand. I assumed it would either be a) like cheese rolling, with people chasing their eggs down the hill until they made it to the finish line or else tumbled and smashed themselves and/or various eggs, or b) a more sedate egg race, where everyone released their eggs at the top simultaneously, and the egg that made it the furthest while remaining intact won. Which, come to think of it, are both essentially the rules of tobogganing I grew up with, but with eggs. So I guess there is a Canadian version!

I had meant to take an egg of my own, but forgot it, because I am incurably forgetful. I fervently hoped all the way there that they might have some spare eggs for incurably forgetful people, or for baffled people who were actually only trying to go for a nice, normal walk in the park but instead stumbled unprepared into a fairyland egg race.

I arrived.

Folks. It turns out that egg rolling is for children.

This was, not gonna lie, extremely disappointing. It also turns out that at least from what I could observe without being too creepy about watching children in a park, there is no race element at all! No competition, no strategy for champion-egg-selecting, no apparent point to egg rolling whatsoever except, well, watching an egg roll down a hill. This hobby was definitely invented before TV and/or video games. And yet, the kids seemed to be having a blast, which was lovely. A hillside full of laughing children is a very cheerful thing to witness.

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Egg Rolling in Starbank 1962, so it's been around at least that long. 51 years later, I didn't take a photo because there were too many kids around and it felt weird, but it looked almost exactly the same. (Photo: Twentymanna/Flickr via Lost Edinburgh facebook group)

​The non-competitive element was surprisingly disappointing. I consider myself a very non-competitive person, but I really think someone missed a trick here. You don't have to care who has the best-rolling egg, but surely, surely, there's some small part of you that wants to know who has the best-rolling egg? Just so you can not care about it on purpose. I mean, it totally doesn't matter who has the best-rolling egg. At all. But it’s still nice to know if it’s you or not, isn’t it? Maybe I'm not as non-competitive as I think.

I would say, though, that only about 60% of the children were technically rolling their eggs. The rest were chucking them overhand as hard as possible and then giggling maniacally as they soared through the air to their demise. Fair enough, because this is almost definitely the only hour of the year they get that involves adult-sanctioned egg-throwing at totally the empty patch of grass and definitely not my sibling who coincidentally happened to be slightly downhill from me when I let go oh oops I didn't see you there dear sibling sorry about that but I'm sure you'll be fine, probably.

Anyhow, after watching children and boiled eggs co-exist in beautiful anarchy for a few minutes, I started feeling weirdly aware that I was very much the only adult in that whole half of the park without a smaller human in tow. I also realised I wouldn't get to try egg-rolling myself without asking a random child to borrow their egg, which seemed like a particularly terrible idea. There were a few mostly-intact ones halfway up the hill that seemed abandoned though, so I surreptitiously nudged one with my foot and watched it tumble a few feet downhill, just to feel like I'd taken part. It was... well, anti-climactic, to say the most. But still, ta-da! Purpose of trip officially fulfilled.

The abandoned egg I commandeered with its very factual decorative message, and a nearby pile of aftermath. I didn't have my glasses on so I thought at first some people were using really high-end quail eggs or such for aerodynamic and/or aesthetic purposes, but upon leaning closer, it turns out they're just hardboiled yolks covered in dirt. Not all that's speckled is fancy.

​I wandered up into the secret garden to see what was going on there. It was an outdoor church service. They'd moved all the benches over for people to sit in the centre of the garden. There was a band off to the side, and a few people at the front, preaching and acting out the Easter story from various characters' viewpoints in almost-costumes: a colourful scarf here, a striped bathrobe there. It had an old-fashioned church pageant feel, in a nice, homely way. All round the edges of the garden there were crowds of people not listening, but chatting and walking and doing crafts at tables with kids, and it was such a beautiful atmosphere. It really felt like a true spring festival, outside in the gentle sea-scented breeze with flowers and laughter and birdsong surrounding a colourful, musical, optional ceremony with sunshine beaming down. If church was always like that, I think more people would go.

I stood near the back, expecting to watch for a few minutes, maybe listen to a hymn and then head off. I had an intense church phase in university about twenty years ago, and I worked as music director for a church later on for a couple years. I'm not really religious anymore, but I feel a bit nostalgic sometimes for the sense of community I found in a couple places. I also still love the music, and the stained glass and the architecture. I absolutely acknowledge the harm many aspects (and certain branches) of organised religions can and have caused, and I know why it's not for everyone.  I also know there are some modern church communities out there made up of amazing, goldenhearted, true-intentioned people, who really do prize kindness over judgment, and who put their useful, real-life action where their faith is, and genuinely help to make the world more inclusive and loving for everyone, not just themselves or any other chosen few. So I miss that kind of community sometimes. (It's almost like religion, like everything else in the world, has both good and bad to it...)

Anyhow, to my surprise, I stayed for the whole service, which lasted probably an hour and a half. I started out half-listening, a million thoughts running through my head about egg aerodynamics for throwing vs. rolling, and whether seagulls eating smashed chicken eggs would count as cannibalism, and how if I squinted enough, I could make all the heads of the colourfully dressed congregation look a bit like enormous Easter eggs sitting in fancy decorated pew-cartons... but after a while, I stopped thinking and just listened. Actually listened, without my mind's usual cacophony of swirling thoughts, and surfacing flashes of random memories or dreams, and snatches of melodies, and several layers of inner monologue. I was just there. In a garden, watching people tell a story through two hilariously malfunctioning microphones while around me, children blew bubbles and flowers grew and the sun made me feel perfectly warm for the first time in months.

This kind of brain calm is very, very rare for me. It happens once in a while on forest walks. Occasionally while playing music. Very often in dance class. Every time I'm acting on stage. Rarely anywhere else. (You know, I think I just realised why I was so set on doing musical theatre for so long.)

So I was there. And then, at the end of the service, which was comfortingly familiar from my church days, there was the exchanging of the peace. This is a part where everyone in the congregation turns to the people sitting near them and shakes hands, or smiles and nods, and says "Peace" or "Peace be with you". Some intrepid extroverts will go so far as to visit neighbouring pews, but most people just turn in place to greet those around them. It's very friendly, and a nice way to make sure everyone feels included and welcome. It was always my favourite part, but I had completely forgotten it was coming.

I was standing at the back with a little flower patch between me and the bench in front of me, and the family standing beside me had left, so there was a good six feet between me and the next bunch of standing people. I didn't feel quite present enough yet to move my feet and go over to them, although I really wanted to. A teenage boy glanced over at me and smiled, so I did an awkward little wave and smile and muttered "Peace" at him, and that was nice.

But as I watched everyone around me shaking hands and hugging and smiling at each other, the last of my meditative reverie dissipated and all the layers of my brain came crashing back. It seemed everyone was there with family or neighbours, and I felt, like on the egg-rolling hill, suddenly awkwardly and conspicuously alone. However, one of my superpowers is blending in and not being noticed, so I settled comfortably into doing that, while pondering the people all around.

Then, in my peripheral vision, I saw an older man, maybe 75, striding purposefully towards me​. I looked up and met his eyes, and I'm probably biased because he was so nice, but I swear they were the kindest, crinkliest eyes ever, exactly like you imagine Santa Claus having. All he did was shake my hand and say "Peace to you", in a way that felt like he really meant it, and I smiled back and said "Peace", but as he turned away... I burst into tears. In the middle of a garden, with a hundred other people around. Maybe ‘burst’ is too dramatic. I think only one tear actually escaped, but it took more than a few minutes to get the welling-up to stop. Not a normal reaction for me! I say hi to strangers all the time and don't cry, I swear! At bus stops, in shops, on the street, at events. I spent years in my shop greeting people and being greeted with genuine interest, and never once did I burst into tears!

He was just too nice. I felt too welcome. I am very comfortable being invisible in crowds, and I am also very good at being invisible in crowds. Usually people respect my highly refined powers of invisibility. But this man was having none of that. He walked six feet out of his way to make sure I felt seen and welcomed, just for a second, in case I needed that. And I guess, given my reaction, I did.

I’ve been trying to figure out why, and I have a theory. Sometimes when I’m by myself in crowds, it’s almost like I’m watching myself watching the event. It can still be fascinating, but it’s distant, intellectual, removed. Not by any means a bad experience, still enjoyable and in fact sometimes preferable, but always very different than when I’m somewhere with other people, connecting and sharing the experience with them. Looking around at all the families at that service, I think I missed mine, and it wasn’t conscious, but I think right then I was wishing I had someone with me so I could change my camera angle from that distant removed view to a close-up human one, like everyone around me had, and that was exactly what that man’s handshake gave me.

It was such a small thing, and honestly, I think if this had happened three years ago, when I had loads of human contact, and went to loads of events with loads of pals, and had loads of adventures, I’d have smiled and thought ‘Oh, that’s so nice of him!’ and gone on with my day. But these days I hermit more and human-contact less, and I'm out of practice at connecting with strangers, which I've always loved doing. That’s part of the whole reason I started this goal of trying things, to counteract the temptingly easy self-imposed isolation habits I’ve let myself fall into the last few years. I mean, I’m getting there, I’m in a perfectly fine state in general (I promise, don’t worry, Mom!) but somehow, that handshake still felt like a huge, soul-healing lift bringing me out of isolation and back to that community-included feeling right when I needed it.

I still felt bizarrely overwhelmed afterwards, so strangers were all nodding and saying Happy Easter to each other as they left but I hurried over to the side of the garden and took this picture below instead of interacting with anyone else. I almost wanted to go say thanks to the man but thought that would be weird. I think I was probably right. It was a nice moment that didn't need to be anything more. But thanks, mister with the white hair and blue shirt and kind, crinkly eyes, whoever you were!

In conclusion, I really thought ridiculously chasing an egg down a hill was going to be what nudged me out of my comfort zone on Sunday, but instead it was a man saying, ‘Hello! I see you there existing, and hope you have a nice day!’

I could think of it as a little Easter miracle, but I actually think it’s even better as something just very, very human: the small kindness of a stranger that means the world. My favourite thing.

Recap:
New Thing: Traditional Egg-Rolling
Overall Rating: 5/10
Thing’s Closeness to Expectations: 5/10
Success at Doing the Thing: 1/10
Surprises: A nice old man said hello
Would Try Again: Maybe, but preferably with a borrowed child
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