Category Archives: gratitude

Choices, Christmas 2021, Family, friends, gratitude, Hands free, Retreat, self-care, time

Hands Free.

Situation:

This morning the sleet was striking hard and the birds in hiding when, all cozy in my flannel pj’s, my digestive biscuit fell into the fresh cup of tea with a little ‘plop.’ It was a sign of today’s downslide mood: the book I am reading is too long, the tree is losing needles faster than I can vacuum, church was out of the question to stay clear of crowds and the new virus variant. ADaneKnits orders are done. The closets are cleaned of old coats, hats and mittens on their way to people who need them more. A mountain of cookies are bagged. Wrapping: check. Our long-anticipated Christmas Eve gathering was cancelled. Do you see where this is going?

My hands are too free; all wound up for my favorite holiday and grounded. This does not feel right.

It is right, on many levels, of course: hard decisions had to be made — retract and stay well (or meet outside ’round the solo stove) — so we could gather together the 24th with family, healthy for the holiday. But all this time alone is a dangerous slope for this type-A.

I want to spread joy, eggnog, body hugs SO MUCH. I want to see you. Instead, I watch Single All The Way on Netflix not once, but twice.

Yesterday it occurred to me that while I intended to be on holiday from writing, I could set the twinkle lights on ‘blink’ mode, clear my desk of wrapping paper, and sink into some more words. Unheard of in Christmas seasons past.

Isn’t time what I long for when ordinarily the season is a race to the finish?

I look at my hands that never stop and remind them that rest is good for all of me. No need to do anything but settle into the moment, be grateful for free. So this Sunday before Christmas, instead of bells and hymns, brunch and mimosas, crowding into shops, I will take a long walk. Later, I might even string lights around all the beds and take a long bath.

Because, you know, nothing but time is ok.

Thanks for reading, grateful for you, stay well.

Merry Christmas.

A.

Yes, this cup.

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Family, Father, gratitude, Handmade

Love Pigs.

Of all the holiday pleasures nothing — nothing — makes me happier than the pigs.

So long ago, before my father’s eyes were beset by Best’s disease, he carved animals from wood. I have a fat sheep and a patient donkey for the manger. On my desk lies a palm-sized duck with a beak tucked tenderly under a wing. On the bookcase, a life-sized Curlew, beak always in peril from the vacuum and small children. On the tree hangs wooden ornaments he cut from pictures my children drew for him. But nothing gives me more pleasure than the two tiny little piggies he carved, the size of my thumbnail, that I place in the Christmas scene come December.

The pigs lie in wait for eleven months, swaddled in cotton, kept safe from the jumble and flurry of the holiday set-ups and take-downs, in a small porcelain Christmas tree that flips open at the trunk.  They are my final tradition in the days before the holiday. I wait until all the lights are strung, the tree trimmed, the skating scene arranged and rearranged, the snow sprinkled; only then do they come out: I tip open the base of the tree and one by one carefully place them on the mantle. Though so small, they square up amongst the skaters and carved trees, the string of sparkle lights and little churches. Their shadows cast stout silhouettes. All that my father loved about this holiday — family, the hearth, the music, beauty created from our hands —  is in these little animals. All the love he could give me is in these half-inch tiny knobs of wood. I always cry when I step back and look at them.

I still remember the sharp points of their ears pricking me as he dropped them in my palm, this tiniest most beautiful gift from his hands to mine. Some years, I place them  around a reindeer. Some years, I place them next to a small hand carved Santa, or in the middle of three paunchy Santas, their ears and tails pointing North and East, peering at the tiny skaters frozen in their poses. Guests will lean on the mantle, stare at the scene and then suddenly burst out laughing. Tiny pigs in a skating scene is funny.

In 2011, a year after my father died, a small box arrived in the mail. My brother had set some of my father’s ashes in a small round globe of glass, the disc streaked with ash and a thin blue swirl. That year I strung the disc on a holiday ribbon, and as soon as the tree was upright, hung my father on a sturdy branch facing the room. Every year after that, he watches his little piggies stand guard and his family grow tall and I cannot believe — each Christmas —  how much of him is all around us. He is right where he was happiest.

I lie awake and wonder what I will leave my children that will stand, year after year, the test of time and love. Words, I think. Many, many words.

Happy New Year, Friends.

Piggies.jpg

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flowers, gratitude, Spring, Women

Hi, Lovely.

This weekend, if you are of a certain age, you have permission to wear white. This edict has been debunked by fashionistas recently; white has become the new black. Hurrah — it is fresh and clean. Only white is not-so-flattering on my butt. So I strategically wear this bright, happy color with layers and smile at my shocked grandmother in the mirror.

I am also of the age where May brings up a flood of memories and gratitude.

Every scent and sound throws me back to the women who cultivated my love of the dirt. I remember you all — both grandmothers with their carefully chosen long-stemmed rose bushes, my mother with the wild willful planters of fiery red geraniums and mint. I wish they could see that I plant herbs close together and crush lavender as I walk by.

This spring in Seattle I have the privilege to see the season of roses, peonies and Mock Orange bushes. My morning walks with Olive, in my white linen and wool sweater (Seattle sports a “marine layer” until noon) are sumptuous and breathtaking. I snap masses of photos and inhale Abraham Darby up my nose, all while leaning dangerously into the gardens of strangers.

I have to talk on the phone away from the window, the birdsong is so loud.

I put up the Silver Palate Minted Spinach and Snap Pea soup recipe, fragrant and bright green, to drink cold out of a jar. I simmer down pot-fulls of strawberries. I plant another round of sorrel, tarragon and basil in foraged containers.

And like the women who showed me how to cultivate, I, too, go down to the beds in the morning and greet my garden. For these women not only taught me to plant deep and water well, they showed me that our gardens, as all things that bring me joy, need to be thanked.

So I am the pajama-clad, bed-haired and graying lady speaking to my little garden at six in the morning. “Hello, Lovely,” I usually begin, then bury my nose in a blossom. I swear they nod at me.

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