Easter Monday is officially observed in more than 100 countries around the world, particularly across Europe, parts of Africa, the Caribbean, and Oceania. In many of these places, it remains a public holiday, a continuation of Easter Sunday’s significance. Its origins are both practical and spiritual: a natural extension of the celebration of the Resurrection, allowing communities to remain in that space just a little longer. In Christian tradition, it is also tied to the story of the road to Emmaus, a quiet, walking conversation in which meaning is slowly revealed, not in spectacle, but in companionship.
In some parts of the world, Easter Monday has faded. No longer marked as a public holiday, it has been absorbed back into routine. Work resumes. Schools reopen. The pause is shortened. Perhaps this reflects something broader: a discomfort with lingering. A tendency to move quickly past meaning once the main event is over. But in places like Germany, Austria, and parts of Switzerland, Easter Monday still holds its ground.
There, it carries a softer, more grounded energy. Not the solemnity of Good Friday, nor the intensity of Easter Sunday, but something in between: a day for walking, for visiting family, for being outdoors as spring quietly asserts itself. The Emmaus story lives on not just in scripture, but in practice. People step outside. They walk together. They talk. They take their time. It is less about proclamation, and more about presence. And perhaps this is where things begin to shift. Because somewhere between those long walks, those shared meals, and those quiet conversations, something else is happening.
The Easter bunnies, having done their work, have quietly disappeared. They have hopped away without ceremony, leaving behind their legacy in gardens, parks, and corners of backyards. Eggs tucked under bushes. Chocolate hidden with the best of intentions… and occasionally forgotten. A different kind of wonder begins.
What happens to the eggs that are never found? Do they simply melt into memory, claimed by ants and sunlight? Or, just for a moment, can we imagine something else? That beneath the soil, wrapped in foil and possibility, they begin to take root. That by summer, perhaps, small chocolate bushes emerge. Heat resistant, of course. Thoughtful evolution. Their leaves a soft green, their fruit unmistakably cocoa. Children returning months later, astonished to discover that what was hidden has somehow grown. It is not entirely logical. But then, neither is much of what Easter asks us to hold.
Around them, the rest of spring continues its quiet work. Easter flowers bloom, daffodils, lilies, soft bursts of color that do not demand attention but offer it anyway. Lamb-shaped cakes appear on tables, a tradition that carries both symbolism and sweetness. Carefully baked, lightly dusted with sugar, they sit somewhere between reverence and delight.
There is something endearing in all of it, because Easter Monday, in its own understated way, allows these layers to coexist. The sacred and the playful. The historical and the imagined. The deeply meaningful and the gently absurd. It gives us permission to exhale. To move from reflection into lightness, without losing what came before.
Perhaps that is why it has endured where it has. Not because it insists on importance, but because it understands something we often forget: that joy does not have to be loud to be real.
Sometimes it looks like a walk.
Sometimes like a shared meal.
Sometimes like a child discovering one last hidden egg days later, convinced it was meant just for them. And sometimes, if we allow it, it looks like a quiet belief that even the smallest things we leave behind, kindness, care, a moment of presence, might grow into something unexpected. Even, perhaps, into chocolate bushes that somehow survive the summer. Stranger things have happened!
Somewhere, in a corner of the world where seasons overlap just enough for magic to make sense, two figures sit across from each other in a small pub. One in a red coat, slightly off duty. The other, ears relaxed, nursing something vaguely carrot-based. Between them, a wooden ledger, edges worn, pages smudged faintly with chocolate fingerprints, connected by a discreet cable to a glowing tablet. Columns flicker with encrypted spreadsheets. A small, suspiciously shimmery cloth rests nearby, just enough to suggest that parts of the operation remain; deliberately unseen.
“Customer service,” Santa says, adjusting his glasses. “Christmas 2025. Strong emotional engagement. Some logistical delays.”
The Easter Bunny nods thoughtfully. “Easter 2026. Good distribution overall. A few missed eggs. Potential for agricultural innovation.”
They both pause.
“Chocolate bushes?” Santa ventures.
“Early trials promising,” the Bunny replies. “Heat resistance still under review.”
A quiet moment passes between them, the kind that comes after long work well done. Santa closes the ledger. “Not bad,” he says.
The Easter Bunny smiles, just slightly. “Not bad at all.”
A new episode of The Magical Co-Working Annex is coming out tomorrow on The Marie Balustrade Author Page!
In case you missed the pilot episode: A Witch’s Discovery
Related blogs: The Easter Triduum
Holy Thursday: To Savour or To Handle
Good Friday: The Rhythm of Belonging
Easter Sunday: “Peace Be With You”
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