“I’m not sure how to categorize last month, with its great highs, and great lows, so deftly melded into one fabric, I feel them now as one. Thank you, my readers, for being patient with my pause in communication! It was not for lack of trying :)
Without needing “the holidays” to be anything in particular, all kinds of things began to flood my mind, even before the solstice. Between scheduling wagon rides, pulling together doll-making materials & gathering ingredients for all the savory dishes of the season, I was simultaneously scrambling to finish & release an album of music, finally put to bed a robust gardening season, and ready my homespun accommodations for guests. It was almost, too much.
Then out of the blue one jolly, frigid day, I came home and was ambushed in my driveway, by angry words, literally as I stepped out of my truck. It would be too much to explain now, but I will, someday. Imagine the most freezing day of the month, and a person yelling at you, and you, without your hat, mittens, or anything substantial to protect yourself from the cold. This ambush immediately bypassed any hope of useful discussion, but, in a protracted & fruitless attempt to find closure, I kept listening, & vainly put forward my point of view, for over a half an hour, in the bone-chilling wind.
I got very sick that night. We wonder if psychic attacks are real, and I am here to say, they are. But chasing the tail of this negative encounter, so many good things followed - I assure you!
And the surprises kept coming.
Spontaneous tarot readings, bread dough, & scissors; rotating chefs, and dumplings, and fires; evergreen spirals, sparkling carafes, and the mountains, lit by candles, & the snow moon, and the plinking of a restrung lyre. Always plastic sleds a plenty, pulling logs, packages, and children And the caw-caw echo of the raven, repeating; spilling dreams over the forest, upsetting saucers, waking gnomes, knocking off from the fairy queen’s head, her diadem! (Yes, this is a poem) Oh, the mayhem; and the tin cans, and the paper chains, and sweet balsam; what feral poetry, wood chunk chunkery, and the toys, the toys - for what are we without them?
Surreptitiously closing one eye to make sure no trickery is involved, rescue cat, D’Artagnan, our brave Muskateer and champion, surveys all, with a compassionated dispassion; children testing him, via yarn & paper airplane, by the hour. And as impressed as children can be, they are enamored and choose him to keep all their more delectable secrets, where no adult can find them. Bravo! It has been quite a show.
Decidedly worth the effort: the paper scraps swept up at night, the needles, put back into their needle cases, the small metal balls belonging to the wooden labyrinth game, nearly lost - the handmade gifts for the old barn elf - did we remember to leave them on the back porch tonight? Our dolls, now serious, with eyes, and necks, & attitude; our kimchi jars also standing tall, an invading army in the fridge - threatening to take over whatever this land is. I struggle to remember who I am, if not, in fact, Father Christmas, but then surely some one of his minions, parading in Santa drag?
Not a day passes without some new arrival of chocolate. And though I’m hoping to ski at least the trails around my house, others take my skis, and do what I would have, had I the strength. I watch them boot up, with a stitch of envy, mixed equally with joy that finally, my kids are doing the one sport I’d always wanted them to.
This, our imperfect Christmas, a series of magical events, created by none-other-than the terrestrial, the angelic, the exquisite, the ordinary, the comforting, inscrutable, yard sale, awards ceremony, rag-tag bunch I call family - it’s what we know!
Now some have departed for Italy, returning home; some have embarked on expeditions to South America for language & cultural immersion. Others remain in the neighborhood, and our snow season is intensifying, along with the cold. Evidently, I still have miles to go before I sleep, for the winter is a fierce one. I thought I should tell you. Carry on, my friends! I love you!
I’ll be diving into a bigger writing project, as the outer world goes below zero & snow buries our dreams in crystalline powder. I dream of blue jays, crowding me, and move forward through them, meaning to make every precious moment count, until I too, am flying.”
