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

 

 

Disconnections: November 29.18

This tower rose in Ireland

as refuge from the Viking;

I ponder it as something

profoundly to my liking.

It’s possible this holds

the peace that calms, revives:

this could be the place

I might escape Burl Ives.

 

 

Ah, yes, dear reader, it’s that time again: time for the onslaught of Christmas mall music, aka noise.

Bing Crosby? Check. The Chipmunks? Check. Tylenol? Check, check.

 

Special thanks to photographer Art Lindeman.

 

Connections: December 25.17

Christmas Eve

the veil fell;

on webbed tiptoe

two ducks attended,

thickening the silence.

Christmas wrap

of folded wing

nodding branch

satin of still water —

in such small space

so vast a peace.

 

 

Wishing you a moment of peace, dear reader, in the traditions you hold dear.

 

Connections

 

Connections: December 28.16

Matchbox baby

chipped St. Joe

yellowed Mary

piecemeal tableau:

my Grandma’s house

with flannel scrap

is bound to Now

in Time’s gift-wrap.

Connections