the pitter-patter of dogga’s feet is what will wake us this morning. he has no awareness that it is christmas morning, no concern about santa claus or light or manger scenes or presents or even non-stop holiday music radio. he just wants us to wake up, to turn the coffee on, to feed him breakfast, to let him out. his routine is the same every day – every single day. it is most definitely an aussie thing, even over and above being a dog-thing.
and we’ll sit under the quilt and the comforter and sip coffee, leaning back against a pile of pillows, watching as the sun rises in the sky out our windows. the skinnytree will be lit in the sitting room off our room so that we can gaze at the happy lights in the dark room as we talk, with dogga curled on the bed at our feet.
when d goes to make breakfast, i will sit and ponder previous christmas mornings, thinking about our daughter and son when they were little, when they dove into the bed trying to wake us, to convince us to open the louvered doors into the living room where we could see if santa had actually come to our house. and then, as the years started to go by, we would wait for them to wake up, to stumble with pjs and maybe blankets, to open stockings first, to rip into brightly-wrapped gifts and hear the glee of such a morning.
it’s quiet here today. all the happy lights will be lit, the trees gleaming, the music playing. we’ll cook and eat heartily, go for a hike in the woods. hopefully we will talk – even briefly – to our girl and boy and perhaps a few other calls. maybe we’ll play rummikub. maybe we’ll have a bonfire out back. maybe we’ll sing at my piano. it will be our intention to have a day of light.
in the midst of everything – everything – going on with us, around us and in concentric circles that widen out to include our community, our nation, our world, we will continue to intend light.
because – ultimately – “goodness is stronger than evil. love is stronger than hate.” (desmond tutu)
in earlier years – for decades – i would have been consumed with shaping advent and christmas services, designing music that lifts the story of this holiday, that spreads the message of love, of light, of the season.
it’s been a bunch of years now that I haven’t been a minister of music and i trust that each church i’ve served before will again have ringing of handbells, choirs in harmony, cantatas with wonderful narrative, pipe organ music reflective of this time of light…perhaps even a ukulele band strumming some favorite carols. i hope that the music programs i started in churches in new york, florida, wisconsin all have grown and that they carry on in the same spirit of joy i brought. it is different to not direct, but the space allows for introspection and reflection.
several years ago – as a piece for one of the cantatas i composed or arranged – i wrote the song “you’re here”. as i listen to my own song – recorded as i sang it at a piano into my phone – these lyrics: and now, you’re here, in a world of hypocrisy and your love can heal us all…”
and it occurs to me that we are all mary – holding space for love, for light, for hope. even outside a tradition that celebrates christmas or hanukkah or any other specifically religious holiday – it is love – period – that can heal us. OUR love. love for one another, love for equality, love for goodwill, love for kindness. it is holding up compassion, concern, tenderness, empathy. it is recognizing brokenness and despair. it is valuing humanity itself and leading with heart and generosity.
in this season, i have found myself humming another of my own personal favorites: hope was born this night.
though i haven’t worn them out-out yet, i have new boots. with a rubber outer, they will keep my feet dry and, hopefully, warm. as i write this – ahead of the calendar – i’m not sure what i am saving them for or why i am saving them – it is a quirk – this save-it-for-good-thing – i’d like to give away at some point – but, since it is still mine, i am still saving them – at least at the time of this writing (way ahead of today).
it seems it will be a white christmas. at least partially, with bits of snow. though it has warmed up a tad since the polar vortex came through, there are still the ever-present piles of snow in parking lots and along the edges of daily living.
so far, we haven’t walked in the snow as much this year as in past years. i’m guessing the combo-platter of the frigid temperatures and the fact that we have been consumed with – guess – yes! – ice-damming have taken the zeal out of our zealous hiking-in-the-snow. i am hoping that more mild temperatures both melt the rest of the ice and rejuvenate our outdoor juju.
last weekend – when the vortex was at its most vort – we stayed in. we wrote, we researched, we read, we decorated, we made soup, we overplayed george winston’s december and hans christian’s door county christmas albums, and we watched the denver broncos squeak past the pack. it was – frankly – too cold to go out. plus, big red had just gotten home from its new fuel-pump-installation and we were less than anxious to test it or our confidence about not having to wait for yet another tow truck. littlebabyscion was way too pleased about staying in the driveway so that iced the cake on staying in, so to speak.
and as i went up and down the stairs, picking through holiday decorations and sorting through stuff, i fell into the unavoidable review of time and life.
the viewmaster of my mind’s eye threw me back: into ice storms and nor’easters on long island, crab meadow beach in the snow, footie pajamas, my parents’ living room, the den fireplace and my growing-up family, eggnog and krumkake, midnight christmas services, caroling, luminaria around our block, open-one-present-christmas-eve, christmas in florida for a few years, arriving in december ’88 wisconsin without a winter coat, being warmly-adopted by linda and bill, our tiny babies, christmas cantatas, a donkey in the church, christmas tree lots, sewing and crafting presents, plates of cookies for santa, 3am gift-wrapping, running the videocamera on christmas morning, wrapping paper and boxes in the fireplace after chopper-dog tore them all up, toddler stocking glee, noisy morning-of mayhem, recording christmas albums in NYC, shipping gifts, shipping albums, concerts, christmas eve brats, choirs, teenagers, santa-lists, cranberry-orange relish, greenbeancasserole, too many decorations, non-stop christmas radio, and then – christmas-tree-on-a-stick, tiny trees, happy lights, more cantatas, more choirs, ukulele carols, more pipe organ, turkey roulade, luminaria and bonfires, more shipping, facetime, quieter mornings-of. and so many other things mixed in.
it has seemed to be a time of some review, a time of serious thought, pondering and ruminating, wistful rising every so often.
looking back – far and near – the long view and what-seems-merely-seconds-ago – and i step into an array of emotions that change like iridescent bubbles in the sun. held by all the memories of before, i glance in front of me, in front of us. i look forward to what’s next – even to this holiday when we are just the two of us on the morning-of, when our grown children celebrate elsewhere, happy for them they are with their dad and stepmom on this day.
if we take a walk – and if there is snow – i will turn around and photograph our prints – steps at a time we have discovered is fluid like all the rest.
the world isn’t stopping. the axis keeps spinning. the moments arrive and then quickly disappear into the eddy of our memory bank.
there’s just so much. there’s just so little. it’s all sooo fast.
“you keep worrying you’re taking up too much space. i wish you’d let yourself be the milky way.” (andrea gibson)
i don’t believe that snowflakes worry as they fall from the sky. i don’t believe that they have any concern for whether they will fit or whether they will fit in.i don’t believe that they are self-conscious or self-doubting or – even – self-aware. they just are.
they form, they float, they land where they may. and then, they just are.
it is clear to me that we do not occupy such a singularly thin space of reality or consciousness. but were we to, it would simplify matters. we would form and float and land and be.
and perhaps that would mean that we would each bring all of us to the space into which we landed. we wouldn’t bring limited or limiting notions of mattering. we wouldn’t bring devices or attitudes measuring importance or gauging hierarchal places of belonging. we wouldn’t bring open hatred or cruelty. we would just land…into a community of other snowflakes, gathered and scattered, all beautiful, and unique.
maybe it would mean that no one of us would feel compelled to rule the space, to take over the place where the snowflakes gathered. maybe it would mean that no one of us would feel like they were more a snowflake than the next snowflake. maybe it would mean that each of us would feel that we count. maybe it would mean that each of us would feel like we are important – galaxy-size-important – even in the middle of all the other snowflakes. each one of us. maybe that kind of valuing could save the world.
every snowflake. they accumulated on the adirondack chairs we left outside in the just-in-case there might be another warm enough day to sit outside or to be by the firepit. i didn’t brush them off. there was something compelling about seeing them – this tiny community of snowflakes – something that drove me to study it, really look at how they scattered onto the surface.
it would seem that – indeed – these snowflakes let themselves fly. unconcerned, undeterred by anything else, i imagine they each – in all their glory – made like they were as big as the milky way and – in all their grand single-snowflake-power – floated and twirled their way down to the very important space that would be theirs. and no one stopped them.
and then, there they were.
tiny individual flakes. taking up all the space.
and they stayed there. waiting for the next snowfall – when they would hear the laughter and joy of the next batch of flakes as they fell, glistening and swirling like diamonds from clouds.
perhaps we are too noisy to hear such glee, to believe in such magic.
the list keeps getting longer. more items to offer to others, more to sell, more to simply dispose of.
i have been the recipient of many hand-me-downs. now, mind you, we use – or repurpose – many of these hand-me-downs….remember, we are the people with the almond 1970s sears kenmore range in our kitchen. still.
because i love numbers, i recently realized that when you add the ages of our three vehicles up right now – this year – in the year 2025 – they add up to 100 years. now, that’s pretty doggone amazing. granted, our little vw bug is included, but if you take that one out, the other two still add up to a whopping 46 years. eh. i digress.
i keep referring back to my sentimental-people-trying-to-divest-of-their-stufffff book. it’s essential self-help material, particularly at a time when we are truly paring down. it helps to read that you don’t have to keep a gift forever – you are not indebted to the gifter in a forever way. and, even if you give some gift away, the sentiment remains. common sense stuff, but not when you are lost in the memories and angst of what to do with the antique relics in a bin or a box.
and so – the box with decorator hanging plates.
i am most definitely not a hanging-plate girl. though they are beautiful, their self-actualization of hanging-on-the-wall will never occur because of me.
we photographed them all the other day, carefully placing them on a black cloth on the table, taking care to avoid glare, turning them over for markings on the back, photographing any written certificates of authenticity that accompany them.
we got through the marketed plates and i have no reticence about listing those for sale – granted, at a low selling price, for the time of hanging-plate-popularity is well past. then we got to the family-handed-down ones. the ones with initials on the back or years (like 1917 or 1930). the ones with sticky notes that my sweet momma wrote, describing the origin of the plate or how it had been passed down. ugh. these are the ones that invoke guilt.
there is one that i will keep. it’s hand-painted, floral, dated 1930, with a hand-threaded wire for hanging, leaving the delicious mystery of who initially placed it there. other plates, however, would only be stored – and that is what i am trying to avoid: long-term storage. and so, i suspect i will offer them to others, perhaps sell the ones that are not family-member-painted or have distinct family connections. it’s a bit stressful. but i keep reminding myself…they are plates, for goodness sake. it isn’t actual DNA strands i am giving away or selling. sheesh. (back to the book!!!! stat!!!)
and then i’ll be moving on to the punchbowl and the old spinning wheel, a plethora of milk glass vases, too many hobnail pieces to ever use, 1970s-1990s sewing patterns.
the thing about all this going-through that is helpful? the fact that i don’t think much about the state of THINGS while i open bins and boxes and sort and photograph and ponder what to do.
the history of these objects – such treasured items in their day and even now – is forefront in my mind.
it is often the handwritten note by my mom that is more difficult than the object itself. everyone has their own line – i’ll never forget when a sibling threw away years and years of my momma’s calendars. as a calendar-girl, i was devastated to hear this. i would so prefer to read my sweet mom’s calendars and notes she jotted on them than have any piece of furniture or jewelry or painted plate. like i said, we all have different value sets.
and so i puzzle how to properly respect these artifacts i am unearthing – particularly some more obviously family-connected – but dates like 1917 on the back of a plate – a scalloped limoges porcelain plate handpainted in soft blue and green hues – forget-me-nots – in the same year as the united states entered the First World War – in order that the world would be made safe for democracy – these dates, the history of such pieces fast-forwards my thinking to today, catapults me back into what is happening now. i cannot help but travel through the history of this country as i unwrap that which is in the plastic bin.
THE BOOK reminds me that no longer having an object does not disconnect one from its meaning, its emotional value, its gifter or pass-it-down-er. all of that – the true worth – is still valid, still present. nevertheless, i take my time and consider carefully the options of parting with something.
which makes me think: what if this country would stand by its values, its rights and freedoms, its constitution with the same level of respectful restraint? what if this country – and its leaders – would consider carefully the options of parting with the very somethings that have made it a republic, a democracy? what if this country would value handing down to our children and their children and so forth the best of what we can all be?
what will the trinkets and artifacts of this very era conjure up in future generations as they open the bins and boxes left for them?
“the more we focus on the good, the more good will circulate.” (carl blanchet)
it would be easy – outside on an extension ladder at 2:00 am – in ten degrees – hauling plastic decanters of hot water up and down – pouring it on a frozen gutter that has been melting into the house – to get crabby, to focus on the negative.
it would be easy – with blow dryer in hand, plastic spatula, rubber mallet and many loads of towels in and out of the washer and dryer – de-icing interior windowsills and windows from the ice-damming above – preventing any further accumulation – to get crabby, to focus on the negative.
it would be easy – as we keep revisiting and dealing with the ice-damming – day after day – for the conditions continue to be ripe with icing – to get crabby, to focus on the negative.
it would be easy – sitting in the parking lot – our truck broken down – big red’s hood up for all to see (including our neighbor who happened to park next to us but pretended not to see us – yikes) – waiting for a tow truck for five hours in less-than-twenty-actual-degree weather – to get crabby, to focus on the negative.
it would be easy – getting summoned for jury duty – at a time when the courts are unconscionably questionable – when the supremes are throwing out constitutional law – when none of us are assured the rights and privileges of this democracy – to sit in the jury room surrounded by over a hundred others – that waiting place – waiting, waiting – to get crabby, to focus on the negative.
but then we wouldn’t have considered the good. for the good that has happened, the good we have witnessed, the good we personally have been privy to – even over the last couple weeks – that good has far outweighed anything that should make us crabby.
the good of strangers, friends, neighbors – trying to help or helping…the good of professionals generously doing their job…the good of circumstances for which we are grateful…the good of the simplest things…the good of waking up.
truly, as carl blanchet backpacks the pacific crest trail for the second time, his focus is on all the good he has encountered. his message is clear – he believes that focus will circulate more good. and i have to say i agree.
for even in these current times – in this current climate – in this country as it currently is – in divided families, divided neighbors, divided communities – we must do the best we can to recognize every morsel of good, to appreciate every bit of good extended to us, to bring good, to pass good on.
there is only one way to get through all the challenges we each face on a daily basis, not to mention the seemingly insurmountable challenges we are facing as the united states of america.
and that is for ruthless goodness to circulate, for each of us to be ruthlessly kind.
to – without hesitation – trump the bad with good.
“know then that the body is merely a garment. go seek the wearer, not the cloak.” (rumi)
and the babycat chair – cloaked in snow – shielded all from the view of its real soul. its new trapping hides its decrepit wickered weave. one would not know not to sit – certainly not to sit back – with snow covering this seat, this chairback. the babycat chair’s garment of white belies what is truly there.
and yet, this chair – the other day – seated a squirrel or two. as i watched out the window, they took turns sitting, munching on something i could not identify, comfortable squatting on this handy seat.
i – like you – have known plenty of people who have cloaked themselves in all the trends, who have kept up in fashion, who dress for the time and continually refresh their wardrobe. indeed, they look fabulous and, like just wearing the right couture, their vehicles and homes and sundries are all cloaked in that same shiny wrap. with some, it might be hard to gauge what is truly inside, what soul is silent, what soul is loud. we may not know but we are entranced by the packaging, the masking, the shell – that which is superficial, evanescent, transient.
the spirit of the babycat chair carries on, with or without snow. its aging – like the aging of barney-the-old-piano in our backyard – lifts up the unchanging truth that aging is not negotiable.
we – inside our cloaks – whatever they might be – transcend the broken wicker of what we put on to cover who we are. like the babycat chair – but exponentially – the spirit of what we mean, what we have meant, remains.
what do we each choose that to be, individually, in community, in this world?
the day I looked out the sunroom window and saw two black-capped chickadees perched on the-branch-we-brought-out-of-our-living-room was the day i realized all was well. this beautiful branch – from the big old tree in our front yard – was having a renaissance. back in the great outdoors, it was experiencing life – all over again, in a new way.
we missed the branch as soon as we removed it from the living room. it had been there for four years – ever since the water main in our yard burst and the ultra-supersized equipment brought in knocked this big branch off our beloved tree. we pulled it aside and then brought it in, putting it in a big clay pot and right next to the front window, bedazzled with happy lights and in a place of honor.
it was our christmas tree that year and has had a variety of ornaments on it each holiday season since – old vintage shiny brites, silver and glitter silver round balls, crystals. it has held a metal star and a peace sign throughout the year and it has been a tad bit difficult to maneuver around the entire time. regardless, we kept it there – in spite of the difficulty to open or close the mini blinds and open or close the windows. to sit in the recliner next to the tree, one had to be mindful of the little branches blocking the way, waiting to poke one’s eye out. nevertheless, we were dedicated to this tree in our living room, even though it truly took up a lot of space.
this year – as we started our zealous clearing-out, we decided it was time for the tree to move outside and take up a new place on the deck, where we could see it out the sunroom windows. d secured it to the deckboards and the railing and we placed new happy lights on it, along with an outdoor timer so it would greet us at every dusk.
i had a few moments – staring at the blank spot in the living room where the tree had taken up soooo much space – missing it. we will fill the spot temporarily with a little wrought iron table and a curly corkscrew rush plant — which will hopefully last through the winter. but in the long run? i’m not sure. it is kind of nice to be able to open and close the miniblinds without ducking or trying to avoid breaking smaller branches.
my temporary sorrow – at change – eased when i looked out the sunroom window and saw these two chickadees sitting on our old broken branch. one flew away and another landed. i could practically hear the branch sighing, its soul happy. and why not? it was a tree again.
we know its curves well. if they could whisper, they would share the secrets of our conversations – conversations of the last decade – times calm, times fraught.
if the curves could speak, the dirt we have kicked up with our boots would sputter and cough, spilling how many painful moments there have been on this trail, how many times one of us has wept.
if the curves could speak, the underbrush just to the side of what is worn down would rise and wave verdant leaves, singing about our triumphs or the laughter that has ridden the wind just above us.
if the curves could speak, they would talk of the ping-ponging of decisionmaking, decisions discussed, decisions debated, decisions made – all on this trail.
if the curves could speak, they would mournfully tell of regrets, of disappointments, of trauma.
if the curves could speak, they would opine on our opining…of health, of politics, of purpose, of relationship, of faith.
if the curves could speak, they would – with glee – share the tiny goodnesses they had overheard, the learnings they had witnessed, the big abundances they had eavesdropped.
if the curves could speak, they would brush the air with words that describe something fluid, something everchanging, something they have helped to not be rigid.
if the curves could speak, they would wordbubble with every shape and form of love, spoken and shouted, sung and murmured.
if the curves could speak, they would give up our secrets – every last one of them.
but the curves cannot speak. and they hold close our hushed voices, our loud voices, our confusion, our tears, our anger, our laughter.
they could not know how much knowing them has aided us, comforted us, pushed us, reassured us.
and i suppose we could not know how well they know us.
and what if we, like the sweet autumn clematis, were each merely one featherduster, one long, wispy tendril birthed from a maroon-brown pod joined with other maroon-brown pods on a single branch of a single vine.
what is it we would do with our wispiness, our soft fluffy plumes, tiny jet engines to propel us near and far? what seeds would we disperse, what knowledge would we dispense, what silvery sheen would we spread?
what would we choose to do with our one, wild featherduster life, our one journey through air, aided by wind, abetted by the twirling of our feathertail? where would we go, what jet stream would we join? what earth song would we sing? what would we touch – ever so lightly – brushing past, barely felt, a tickle of plume?
what if that were all we had? would we join with all the other featherdusters, an intertwined community seeding community? or would we spend our time engaged in disjointed competitive infighting with the others? would we choose a path on which we might twirl through together or would we choose to shoot off, like that one plane in a memorial fly-by, forging a new trail in air, bushwhacking through underbrush? what would our desire path be?
what if that had been our passage in this place? what if our featherduster existence had been it? would we have been all in? would we have given our best? would we have embraced seeding more clematis – like seeding more shimmery goodness? or would we have held back, continually waiting for something glorious to happen, for better weather, or for whatever later might be?
reverse threading 