Thank you, sweet friend! 🌺🌸🌼

So whether you’re sending flowers, lighting a candle, or just trying to emotionally survive the day and her guilt trip — here’s to the women who got us here.

Happy Mother’s Day.

And shoutout to the belly button:
weird little scar, big-ass origin story.

I don’t have a perfect takeaway.

Only this:
People will disappoint you.
People will surprise you.
Sometimes, they’ll do both in the same day.
And joy, like trust, is fragile—but it’s also weirdly resilient.
You hide it.
You hope someone finds it.
You believe, against odds, that maybe they will.

And while I was doing that—just letting it be what it was—the box of eggs turned up. Discarded a few feet away, somewhat scuffed, like it had been exiled and then changed its mind.

I let the community know. Called it a tiny absurd tragedy.
And then, something beautiful happened.
People got mad. On my behalf.
They cussed out the joy thieves.
They offered to donate eggs. To give back theirs so someone else could participate.

Only 8 or 10 eggs were left in it, but that wasn’t the point. In all these years, this had never happened. Several artists hadn’t even had the chance to pick theirs up.

I felt that familiar pang—the one that comes from trying to make something gentle in a world that is not.

Still, I showed up. I made a small logistical change: I moved the location where artists could pick up their blank eggs.

And then, yesterday. Poof.
Gone.
The box.
Missing.

This year is Year 11. And to be honest, I am already running on fumes.
The mood in the world is low, heavy. People are burned out, broke, grieving, stuck. Joy feels like a luxury item these days—something beautiful and breakable and maybe a little embarrassing to admit you still want.

At its core, the hunt runs on communal trust:
That people will drop the eggs.
That others will go looking.
That they’ll claim what they find.

It started in local parks—adult strangers, dressed in their Sunday best, crouched in flowerbeds.

Then thanks to a certain global virus, the hunt evolved into a Springtime scavenger poem.