Agnieszka Wolsoncroft

by Agnieszka Wolsoncroft With Anya and the pine trees #grateful #forest #motherhood I was six years old the night I learnt that miracles take patience. I couldn't sleep. I knew Dziadek was still up – I could see the light under the kitchen door from my bedroom. So I crept down the hallway in my pyjamas, barefoot on cold floorboards, curious about what he was doing so late. I stood in the doorway, one hand on the frame, trying to look invisible. He had a cardboard box on the kitchen table. A...

by Agnieszka Wolsoncroft A couple of weeks ago was Easter. This Saturday is ANZAC Day. Between them sits something I've been trying to understand my whole life: what it costs to dye an egg in safety. Let me explain. # I was seven years old, sitting at my Babcia's kitchen table in Poland, watching her hands move carefully as she arranged brown onion skins in a pot of boiling water. She placed the eggs inside gently, one by one, the way you hold something precious. "Why do we do this,...

by Agnieszka Wolsoncroft #święconka #Easter #traditions Good Friday evening. The house is quiet. Not the natural quiet of a sleeping child or an empty room. This is different. Deliberate. Sacred. Jesus has just died on the cross. In Poland, when I was young, Good Friday evening meant silence for those who truly believed it. Not everyone kept it – most people didn't. But for those of us who felt we'd lost a friend, who understood what this day meant, the silence was everything. The...