Long ago — when the world was still learning how to turn from winter into spring — the fields lay quiet and brown. Then the Goddess began to walk the earth, and wherever her feet touched, green shoots dared to rise. One small hare watched her. He heard the birds singing and saw the flowers blooming in her honor and wondered how he could thank her.
But the hare had nothing beautiful to offer — only the simple eggs he gathered from the nests he tended in secret. So he did what no creature had done before.
He dipped those plain eggs into crushed berries and flower petals. He rolled them in golden pollen and brushed them with the juice of tender spring greens. When he was finished, the once-ordinary shells shimmered in soft colors — pink from wild raspberries, yellow from early blossoms, blue from woodland berries.
When the Goddess returned and saw the colored eggs nestled in fresh grass, she smiled. The hare had made something new — just as she made the world new again each spring.
And so, it is said, the tradition of coloring eggs began.
Whether told as folklore of Eostre and her devoted hare or passed quietly through generations, decorated eggs have long symbolized gratitude for renewal. At this time of year, when daylight stretches to twelve hours and beyond, hens begin laying reliably again. Our ancestors gathered those eggs with relief and joy. They were nourishment, yes — but they were also promise.
The egg has been a symbol of life returning for thousands of years. Hidden within its fragile shell is the mystery of creation itself — a quiet reminder that something living waits just beneath the surface. In springtime, when the earth awakens and seeds stir beneath the soil, that symbolism feels especially powerful.
The hare carries its own meaning in the lore of the season. Long before the modern Easter Bunny appeared in storybooks and candy aisles, European folklore already linked the hare with fertility, moon cycles, and the quickening life of spring. Hares were often seen darting through fields at dusk, lively and alert, embodying the restless energy of the season.
By the late 1600s, German writers were already recording a charming spring tradition. Children were told that an Easter hare would come during the night and lay colored eggs in gardens and fields. In preparation, they would build small nests of grass, moss, or straw and leave them outdoors, hoping the hare would visit.
On Easter morning, the children would run out at first light to search.
Behind bushes, beneath the hedges, or tucked gently into the nests they had prepared, they might find bright eggs hidden among the new green shoots of spring. Red eggs, yellow eggs, sometimes eggs stained with the colors of flowers or berries — gifts, they believed, left behind by the mysterious hare.
Whether the story was told in whispers beside the hearth or shouted with excitement in the morning garden, the joy was the same. Children laughed, parents smiled, and the quiet miracle of spring was celebrated in the simplest way possible.
Decorating eggs for Ostara carries that same spirit forward.
Each egg becomes a small symbol of renewal — a reminder that life returns even after the longest winter. The colors echo the first wildflowers of the season. The act of decorating them becomes a moment of gratitude for the turning of the wheel and the promise of brighter days ahead.
And perhaps, somewhere in the ancient memory of the season, the little hare still watches with quiet satisfaction. What began as one humble offering of gratitude has become a tradition shared across generations — bright shells, joyful searching, and the simple magic of welcoming spring.
I love the story of the hare.