December 24.23: Coping, but barely

How fantastical,

how stickily droll,

Christmas lights

in mixing bowl!

No treasure chest

of royal bling

could be more saucy,

more nose-beguiling.

In glint of ruby,

emerald, gold,

its riches twinkling

manifold,

with storied kitchens

thus entrusted,

memories soon

to be encrusted.

 

I had a Christmas wish list which included mincemeat pie for Christmas, and didn’t my daughter-in-law decide to make her own mincemeat! I am in awe of how beautiful it is, and I am even more in awe of her ambition!

There is nothing about mincemeat that doesn’t take me back to my Grandma O’Hern’s dining room. I endeared myself to everyone then by eating the filling and leaving the crust, but I’m better now.

All our traditions come with wishes, hopes, dreams. We are very aware this year of all those whose dreams and hopes have been shattered by violence, whether by words or by other weapons. I know how fortunate I am to be able to wish for mincemeat pie while others wish for survival.

May your traditions bring you beauty and hope, dear reader. May you and your loved ones be safe.

 

With thanks to Kelley Wilson Mesterharm for photo

and for visions of mincemeat dancing in my head!

 

December 17.23: Coping, but barely

A toast to the time

such as it is,

my brain a-whir,

the hours a-whiz.

Christmas galumphs,

looming larger each day,

with Clydesdales of reindeer

and jet-engined sleigh.

But here in the morning

as another day comes,

I hear a loud nothing

in the company of crumbs.

There’s respite and rest,

a time-out from the fray,

in luxurious slice

of petit déjeuner.

I watch the sky redden

behind twinkling tree,

and my opulent life

quite overwhelms me.

May a moment with toast

be yours, reader dear,

as we struggle for peace

in the Now and the Here.

 

Whatever you celebrate, dear reader, I suspect you are as tired as I am of the noise. Not just the dumb music in the stores, but the noise in our heads and hearts. We need it to stop. Sometimes, if we are among the fortunate, the noise of toast crunch blocks all else out, and we can dwell in quiet if only for as long as the toast lasts. And if it is maybe sourdough toast with maybe raspberry jam, I cannot wish more for you!

 

 

November 22.23: Coping, but barely

A candle in the window. Not just for Christmas anymore.

While grumbling about how the stores forced the holidays, I’ve been putting up my Christmas candles earlier and earlier. Long ago, I put them up after Thanksgiving. Later in life, the night before Thanksgiving, and finally, now, the weekend before Thanksgiving.

A few of my neighbors have their glitter on already, and I know it is early, but I’ve never needed it more. A neighbor across the pond has a new display with ropes of twinkly blue lights on his fence, and they are reflected in the pond. Twice the twinkle, twice the proclamation.

I give thanks for the little lights that crash the darkness. I do not give thanks for Burl Ives or Bing Crosby or the Chipmunks that assail me in the stores. I wish laryngitis on them all. But the lights are different. Leaving aside the displays with heaving blimps of reindeer, the lights are — to me — a sign of stubborn hope.

The little light that shines is hackneyed and trite. But it’s true. There are little things in life that are really big. Your responses, dear reader, are among those things. You have taught me and encouraged me. I am about to hoist a turkey into the oven, and tomorrow, mindful of the world in which we write, I will raise a drumstick to you all. Thank you!

December 24.21: Coping

My world is little

as is my tree,

yet there’s a world

inside of me.

The thing to do,

I cannot doubt,

is turn my person

inside-out,

and hang that world

with due aplomb

upon this little

tannenbaum,

and then to watch

the tree grow tall

— not so little

after all.

The world within

is mighty crowd,

kaleidoscopic,

teeming, loud,

overlapping place

and year,

mix of music,

laugh and tear.

Mishmash? Yes.

But life is that:

it isn’t neat

and folded flat.

The world inside,

the story of me,

sparkles on

my Christmas tree.

 

Whatever your traditions, your rituals, dear reader,

may they bring comfort this year,

and may they keep the story of you.

 

December 23.21: Coping

The lessons of childhood,

bothersome baggage,

surface at Christmas,

like this overworked adage:

patience is virtue.

It’s so over-rated;

too much have I wanted,

too long have I waited.

How is waiting

a motivation?

Yeast insists:

anticipation.

 

 

December 31.20: Coping

A wink, perhaps,

lightly nefarious:

above the noble

“Stradivarius”

the truth is stamped,

hidden slyly —

“Copy” — by luthier

deft and wily.

 

I think it was no coincidence that 2020 was the year I attended to my father’s violin, which I had allowed to fall into disreputable condition. I’d needed some sense of grounding, of continuity, in a year of such cataclysmic instability. I had it repaired and renewed for my grandson this Christmas, and there was indeed grounding. This was the instrument my father played in his grade school orchestra, circa 1925.

 

The one he played in our family Christmas concerts (a merry barnyard kind of sound) and introduced to his grandson circa 1977.

 

The one I rescued from my own shameful neglect and presented — in its well-worn KantKrack case, beribboned and (it seemed to me) proud — to his great-grandson this Christmas.

A violin doesn’t have to be a Stradivarius to be priceless. And 2020 has made us acutely more mindful of the priceless things that ground us.

Thank you, dear reader, for all your encouragement and insights this year. May the new year bring us all the repair, renewal, and tuning we need, may we be grounded in the priceless things of life, may we be mindful of those who grieve and who care for our sick, and may there one day again be real hugs!

 

 

December 24.20: Coping

Stories connect us;

the tales that we tell

try to fill the unfillable

of a deep human well,

but sometimes words falter,

they’re easily spent,

and we must turn to music

to say what is meant.

 

Whatever your stories, dear reader, whatever your traditions,

may they bring you peace and comfort.

Whether you soar with Beethoven’s Ninth

or (like me) warble along with ancient Robert Shaw records,

may there be the wonder of music for you.

Maureen

 

December 24.19

Winter triptych,

artful guise,

Christmas concert

for my eyes,

a carol sung

in thralled duet

by silent snow

and silhouette.

 

Whatever our traditions

may there be a renewal of wonder

for us all.

May old stories remind us of old truths,

and may old truths make us unafraid of new ways.

A very merry Christmas, dear reader!

Maureen

December 19.19

Language isn’t always words —

it’s far more complicated;

not everything in life

can be articulated.

That’s why the things of Christmas

assemble every year,

preserving time and place

we won’t let disappear.

Each family has a history,

hero, legend, fiend;

words fall short, but things

keep them evergreened.

 

There is nothing in this photo, dear reader, that doesn’t tell a story, including the chunk of mid-century furniture that belonged to my parents. Not everyone celebrates Christmas: I get that. But most people understand how things tell a story, and we probably all have at least one thing tucked away somewhere that says more than words alone can say.

For me to put into words everything said here would require an epic. There are things from my Grandma O’Hern’s house. From my sons’ childhoods. From my bachelor days. From friends, from family. Then to now.

Sometimes meaning is better told without words.

Disconnections: December 25.18

 

Do you remember, dear reader, two Christmases ago when my big beautiful tree fell flat on its face, ornaments and all? And we (my son) had to wrestle it across the room and tie it to the bannister with twine to keep it upright? Here it is again. More or less. Well, definitely less. This is the top part.

As you know, this has been the year of The Downsize. The tree is a little shorter, and so am I. We hold a million memories anyway.

Our tinsel might be tarnished,

our limbs a bit askew

but we wish a merry Christmas

and peaceful heart to you!

 

Maureen