In a few minutes the sun will set on this oh-so-cold last day of January, and Imbolc begins. Imbolc has always been the most sacred of holy days for me, the night and day that honors Brighid, the threefold Goddess of poetry, healing and smithcraft, 'my' Goddess, the One to whom I promised heart and hands one day in a labyrinth in 1997, a time--and promise--that changed my life. Ten years later we had a misunderstanding, Brighid and I, a falling out. She never promised me a rose garden, but the thorns pierced my heart and soul; I expected that service to the Goddess to be a joy, and felt deeply betrayed when that service to Her became servitude to another's vision. When walking away from the work I believed I'd been called to, I walked away from the Goddess as well. And the spiritual loneliness has finally led me back home, back to Brighid...to the understanding that seasons change, the oceans ebb and flow, and what we're called to do may also change, ebb, flow like the tides of our lives.
Tonight I'll honor Her, ask Her blessings, Her guidance, and offer my deepest gratitude that while I turned my back, She never left....
Blessed Be....and Blessed Imbolc, 2010.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Of Movies and Recuperation
So twice a year my job entails a couple of weeks of semi-madness: loooonnngg days of fast-thinking, never being quite prepared enough, the frustration of knowing some things could have been done better, disappointments and successes, the determination to do it all better the next time, and even the satisfaction of a job well done. Yesterday wrapped up the January version of that time of year, but I wasn't there for it. Midweek a nasty cold wormed its way in, setting off bronchitis and asthma and wearing me out totally before I could quite make it to the finish line. Deep sigh. So I stayed home yesterday, trusting my very capable staff--without whom I would be lost--to see it to the final hours while I stayed home glued to the couch, too weary and sick to even knit.
Today I feel a little better, and since Linda is off at a beekeeping class (yes, beekeeping!!), I treated myself to a repeat showing of a wonderful movie we saw this past Summer--Julie & Julia. It's one of those films you wish could just keep on going; the acting is marvelous, the story simple but magnificently done. If you don't know the plot, it recounts, side-by-side, the story of how Julia Child 'became' the Julia Child we all 'know', and the tale of Julie Powell, who decided to cook and blog her way through Childs' Mastering the Art of French Cooking....I loved every second of this truly charming juxtaposition. I confess it was that movie that made me seriously contemplate blogging. I began a private blog a couple of years ago, intended to serve as a journal of sorts for us to record things we did in the garden, discoveries we'd made, a calendar to track when things bloom, and so on, but since blogging felt--and feels--a tad narcissistic, I'd been reluctant to publicly dip my toes into that particular literary pool. Julie & Julia didn't dispel that notion, but it did nudge me into deciding that maybe a teeny bit of narcissism could be good for the soul, a good workout for tackling some major writing down the road, and if we're honest, writing is a somewhat self-involved pursuit anyway--and that too can be good for the soul, if seasoned with a dash of balance! If you haven't seen the movie, it's light fare that makes you go back for seconds, and well worth the viewing.
Besides that indulgence, I finally picked up my knitting again....hadn't touched it since last Sunday because I came home too tired at nght to do more than shower and crawl into bed, but this morning it was soul-nourishing to feel the softness of the alpaca against my skin, hear the comforting click of the bamboo needles against each other, and see the dark green rows grow before my eyes. And, laying on the seat of gorgeous gold and burgundy $25 flea market 1940s swan-arm chair that my beloved had reupholstered for me for my birthday last year, is the Winter issue of SpinOff!!! I've been longing to read it and subscribe ever since seeing it last Fall. It's sort of like understanding one or two words of Spanish and subscribing to El Diario, but as I learn the language and culture of wooliness, I trust it'll make more sense. In the meantime, just looking at the pictures and gleaning what bits of information I can understand will be a true delight!! In fact, if you'll please excuse me, being an instant-gratification kind of womon, I can't wait any longer....
Today I feel a little better, and since Linda is off at a beekeeping class (yes, beekeeping!!), I treated myself to a repeat showing of a wonderful movie we saw this past Summer--Julie & Julia. It's one of those films you wish could just keep on going; the acting is marvelous, the story simple but magnificently done. If you don't know the plot, it recounts, side-by-side, the story of how Julia Child 'became' the Julia Child we all 'know', and the tale of Julie Powell, who decided to cook and blog her way through Childs' Mastering the Art of French Cooking....I loved every second of this truly charming juxtaposition. I confess it was that movie that made me seriously contemplate blogging. I began a private blog a couple of years ago, intended to serve as a journal of sorts for us to record things we did in the garden, discoveries we'd made, a calendar to track when things bloom, and so on, but since blogging felt--and feels--a tad narcissistic, I'd been reluctant to publicly dip my toes into that particular literary pool. Julie & Julia didn't dispel that notion, but it did nudge me into deciding that maybe a teeny bit of narcissism could be good for the soul, a good workout for tackling some major writing down the road, and if we're honest, writing is a somewhat self-involved pursuit anyway--and that too can be good for the soul, if seasoned with a dash of balance! If you haven't seen the movie, it's light fare that makes you go back for seconds, and well worth the viewing.
Besides that indulgence, I finally picked up my knitting again....hadn't touched it since last Sunday because I came home too tired at nght to do more than shower and crawl into bed, but this morning it was soul-nourishing to feel the softness of the alpaca against my skin, hear the comforting click of the bamboo needles against each other, and see the dark green rows grow before my eyes. And, laying on the seat of gorgeous gold and burgundy $25 flea market 1940s swan-arm chair that my beloved had reupholstered for me for my birthday last year, is the Winter issue of SpinOff!!! I've been longing to read it and subscribe ever since seeing it last Fall. It's sort of like understanding one or two words of Spanish and subscribing to El Diario, but as I learn the language and culture of wooliness, I trust it'll make more sense. In the meantime, just looking at the pictures and gleaning what bits of information I can understand will be a true delight!! In fact, if you'll please excuse me, being an instant-gratification kind of womon, I can't wait any longer....
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Wild & Woolly, Part II
I left off raving about my newfound crush. One has a couple of options when finding one's self falling arse over teakettle in love. One can muster up good sense and balance, and be right-side-up again before too much water spills under the bridge. One can throw out one's hands and not fall too far before being picked up, dusted off and set right. Or one can surrender utterly and roll merrily along for the ride....That last one would be me. I've discovered I can't learn enough, quickly enough. By November I had a drop spindle, a lovely, smooth KYSpindle from The Woolery. Who knew that wood could feel so silky, satiny? That I would delight in just stroking the smoothness? I've had a single lesson, and have two books to refer to. I love the tactile magic of transforming fluffy roving into something than can one day be knitted or crocheted....what a miraculous thing that mere fluff can become a sweater, a scarf!!!
I've played with it a bit, and look forward to more lessons, and I'm longing for the day I can try this with a spinning wheel. But baby steps are what's needed here; I'd like to learn to spin in this totally hands-on way that harkens back thousands of years. When the time is right, I'll give a wheel a whirl.
So having given spinning a spin, my Gemini mind was greedy; mind and hands wanted to explore, itched to find more ways to indulge this nearly insatiable craving to touch and stroke, to embrace every aspect of working with wool. Knitting seemed the obvious answer. I'd rejected knitting as a teenager; precision isn't my strong suit, and knitting felt--and seems still--rather unforgiving. But I needed to try. An aborted effort from a book nearly derailed me (some things just shouldn't be learned from a book, ya know?), but then Nici McNally rescued me with her DVD! Her warm manner and the slow, up-close demonstrations had me casting on and practicing knit stitches in minutes. Purl stitches make me think of the old adage about Ginger Rogers doing everything Fred Astaire did, only in hgh heels and backwards, but by golly, I figured it out! I've had crafty dalliances before, but I always walked away before it could get too serious, before anyone got hurt. They were mere flirtations, a hooked rug here, a crocheted scarf there, a sweet but very brief fling with some needlepoint. But this time, thanks to Nici (I hope you don't mind that I'm calling you by your first name; I feel we've bonded in our time together), and some help when I got stuck from Susan, the kind and extremely patient owner of Amazing Threads in Saugerties, I've gone all the way (yes, I'm admitting that publicly...times have changed and no one hides that kind of thing anymore); last weekend I FINISHED a project...a gorgeous scarf for Linda:
I used Cascade Baby Alpaca Chunky Paints in Londonderry, and a very basic knit 5 stitches, purl 5 stitches pattern to create a wide ribbed look. It's been a heady experience, the soft caresses of skin and cloud-soft wool, the intensity of our time alone together, the wild exultation when 'it' was....finished. I'm embarrassed to say I couldn't wait to do it again. As I write, some Inca forest green alpaca is whispering my name, begging me to come back and work on the shawl I've begun. I'm trying to play hard to get, but, well....turns out I'm easy. My mother would be shocked.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Wild & Woolly--Part I
I guess it's time to talk about it. After all, I've hinted at it; it's not as though I've been able to keep it a secret. People have noticed the loving looks, the gentle touches, the way it 'creeps' into conversation. I've always been told I'm pretty transparent, that people can see on my face whatever I'm feeling. My sister has encouraged me to come out, to actually write about it....'it'...this....my love affair. Oh, hey, Linda will always be my true beloved, but I'm afraid that she's going to have to be willing to share. So far she seems quite willing, indulgent even. Between you and me, I saw the look in HER eyes, and she's not far from going down a similar path; we're not wild womyn, but this may well end up being a menage a trois. But let me tell you how it began, on a cold, cloudy, unfriendly October day--was it really just three months ago?
We went to the NY Sheep & Wool Festival, in Rhinebeck. Who, untutored in the culture of woolly people, could have known how popular such an event is, how totally fascinating the world of sheep and wool is, or that it is indeed its own culture? Like the Binars of TNG fame, these people had their own language and the uninitiated could only watch and absorb. We were endlessly amazed, a bit overwhelmed by the crowds, smitten by the rainbows of colors and textures. At first only my eyes caressed, but then, as I got swept up in the moments, my hands began to wander, shy, gentle touches at first, but by day's end, they were plunging into piles of fleece and roving, greedily stroking skeins of alpaca (I blush to think of how I reacted to my first brush with quiviot).
I spent hours touching and caressing all kinds of wool, and Linda did her fair share of sidelong glances, taking photos, allowing herself a lingering touch or two. We ooohed and aaahed over wool creations, like felted murals and a brilliantly-colored felted gnome world
complete with mushrooms, petting sheep and alpacas (it's really a good thing an alpaca wouldn't fit in the back seat of the car because we'd have had alot of explaining to do to the girls--one alpaca vs the gang-of-five.....not sure how that would have gone, but for sure Linda was in love!).
Sometime, somewhere that day, I too drank the koolaid (did you know koolaid is sometimes used to dye wool? Not nearly as interesting as say, onion skins, but it has to be a big hit with kids), and developed such a profound crush on wool and its mysteries. I always thought I was allergic to wool. In fact, an allergy to wool itself is reportedly very rare. Skin may be sensitive to rougher, prickly wool, but an allergy is unusual. An allergy to the lanolin of the wool is more common, but that day allergies were no barrier to what was happening.
We left, dragging our feet, between us determined to learn to spin, dye wool, make felt. I'll admit that on the way home we discussed attempting to raise an alpaca or two, the advantages of having sheep to 'mow' the seemingly--on a hot summer day anyway--vast expanse of grassy hill we have. Things changed for me after that. A week or so later I was flying to Missouri on business, and as I looked out the plane window at thick layers of white cloud, instead of the usual 'field of snow' metaphor coming to mind, I saw miles of wool roving, and wanted to sink my hands into it. Even now, I see clouds spilling down the mountains and my hands can almost feel the texture of that wool. The initial crush has bloomed into a love affair, and I fear there's no going back.
We went to the NY Sheep & Wool Festival, in Rhinebeck. Who, untutored in the culture of woolly people, could have known how popular such an event is, how totally fascinating the world of sheep and wool is, or that it is indeed its own culture? Like the Binars of TNG fame, these people had their own language and the uninitiated could only watch and absorb. We were endlessly amazed, a bit overwhelmed by the crowds, smitten by the rainbows of colors and textures. At first only my eyes caressed, but then, as I got swept up in the moments, my hands began to wander, shy, gentle touches at first, but by day's end, they were plunging into piles of fleece and roving, greedily stroking skeins of alpaca (I blush to think of how I reacted to my first brush with quiviot).
I spent hours touching and caressing all kinds of wool, and Linda did her fair share of sidelong glances, taking photos, allowing herself a lingering touch or two. We ooohed and aaahed over wool creations, like felted murals and a brilliantly-colored felted gnome world
complete with mushrooms, petting sheep and alpacas (it's really a good thing an alpaca wouldn't fit in the back seat of the car because we'd have had alot of explaining to do to the girls--one alpaca vs the gang-of-five.....not sure how that would have gone, but for sure Linda was in love!).
We watched spinsters--as in, those whose occupation is to spin--
and marveled over Oriental rug punchers, and felters and knitters. The colors of the festival more than rivalled the colors of the Hudson Valley Fall foliage.
Sometime, somewhere that day, I too drank the koolaid (did you know koolaid is sometimes used to dye wool? Not nearly as interesting as say, onion skins, but it has to be a big hit with kids), and developed such a profound crush on wool and its mysteries. I always thought I was allergic to wool. In fact, an allergy to wool itself is reportedly very rare. Skin may be sensitive to rougher, prickly wool, but an allergy is unusual. An allergy to the lanolin of the wool is more common, but that day allergies were no barrier to what was happening.
We left, dragging our feet, between us determined to learn to spin, dye wool, make felt. I'll admit that on the way home we discussed attempting to raise an alpaca or two, the advantages of having sheep to 'mow' the seemingly--on a hot summer day anyway--vast expanse of grassy hill we have. Things changed for me after that. A week or so later I was flying to Missouri on business, and as I looked out the plane window at thick layers of white cloud, instead of the usual 'field of snow' metaphor coming to mind, I saw miles of wool roving, and wanted to sink my hands into it. Even now, I see clouds spilling down the mountains and my hands can almost feel the texture of that wool. The initial crush has bloomed into a love affair, and I fear there's no going back.
Friday, January 1, 2010
Happy New Year!
So how many blogs written today have started that way? Too many to count, I imagine. What is it that makes that moment-between-the-worlds, midnight on December 31st, seem shiny and new, magical? This first day of the new year is that one last Christmas present we missed, tucked under the tree, wrapped in the shiniest paper and adorned with a glittering bow. That present could be anything; it embodies all the possibilities and potential, all those things we'd secretly hoped Santa would bring us but which never materialized on Christmas day.
On Dick Clark's Rockin' New Year's Eve last night (as an aside, it brought me to tears; I've watched it many times in its 37 years, but seeing Dick Clark so old, having trouble speaking, stumbling over the countdown, was painful), the word 'hope' was bandied about like one too many gingerbread cookies, and yet distilled to its essence, isn't that what we're celebrating? Aren't we rejoicing we made it through one more year and lived to tell the tale? Aren't we hoping and praying that the days and weeks ahead will be more successful--however we measure that success--than the year we're leaving behind in the confetti? Aren't we wishing that just this once we really can have a blank slate, a chance to rewrite our story the way we want it to be? Aren't we dreaming, imagining, tasting where and how we want to be when this new year draws to a close?
I hope to end the year the way this one began, laughing with and kissing my beloved. I hope that when this year ends I'll have met my goal of submitting a finished manuscript to the publishing house that does an annual contest; that I'll have taken charge and finally lost the weight that has posed a real threat to my health; that I spend my days doing work that's fulfilling and feels good at the end of a day; that my loved ones are well and healthy and happy; that my serious crush on fiber will have blossomed into a reciprocal love affair; that I'll have deepened my spiritual connection; that I laugh often and fall asleep each night snuggled with Linda. That's the story I'm writing....what would you like your story to be on December 31, 2010?
On Dick Clark's Rockin' New Year's Eve last night (as an aside, it brought me to tears; I've watched it many times in its 37 years, but seeing Dick Clark so old, having trouble speaking, stumbling over the countdown, was painful), the word 'hope' was bandied about like one too many gingerbread cookies, and yet distilled to its essence, isn't that what we're celebrating? Aren't we rejoicing we made it through one more year and lived to tell the tale? Aren't we hoping and praying that the days and weeks ahead will be more successful--however we measure that success--than the year we're leaving behind in the confetti? Aren't we wishing that just this once we really can have a blank slate, a chance to rewrite our story the way we want it to be? Aren't we dreaming, imagining, tasting where and how we want to be when this new year draws to a close?
I hope to end the year the way this one began, laughing with and kissing my beloved. I hope that when this year ends I'll have met my goal of submitting a finished manuscript to the publishing house that does an annual contest; that I'll have taken charge and finally lost the weight that has posed a real threat to my health; that I spend my days doing work that's fulfilling and feels good at the end of a day; that my loved ones are well and healthy and happy; that my serious crush on fiber will have blossomed into a reciprocal love affair; that I'll have deepened my spiritual connection; that I laugh often and fall asleep each night snuggled with Linda. That's the story I'm writing....what would you like your story to be on December 31, 2010?
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Wind, Snow & Time
Woke up far too early this morning (why is it that during this week when I don't have to set an alarm, I'm waking up day after day earlier than I do on work days?). Cootie was howling, my mind was racing, and I was about to give up the notion of sleep when the first rush of wind roared through the trees, blowing right through the window glass to push the shades open just a bit. From our bedroom the wind feels closer, louder, as if we're nesting in some mountain aerie. It became a whole other pre-dawn story, so I pulled up the covers, snuggled closer to Linda, and actually dozed off listening, giving thanks for that moment.
Alas, once Dotty began her caterwauling there was no more hope of sleep. Of course, she stopped once I came downstairs and is now sleeping peacefully in her own nest. I'm fighting the urge to go wake her up and see how she likes it! Then began the morning routine of peeking out at the yard through the office windows, turning up the pellet stove, and pouring that lovely, dark, steaming first cup of coffee. One of the greatest inventions of all time has to be the programmable coffeemaker. I never take for granted the visceral pleasure of coming downstairs to the rich, welcoming scent of coffee already waiting for me....steaming hot, darkly beckoning me, the sound of it as I pour it into a carefully chosen mug (moose mugs in the winter although they are a tad too small, in summer & fall, the snake-handle pottery mug made by Susan Minyard of Sweetwater Pottery, and something sunny and bright in the early Spring when the soul longs for a splash of color). The routine continues with the daily--sometimes several times a day--check of the weather channel website...just how cold is it REALLY? Do we have snow to look forward to (hah!)? Is the heat ever going to break? Here's the weather irony...I love weather drama. Give me thunderstorms that shake the ground and light the night; give me the occasional blizzard (ideally, check dates with me first, please) BUT we settle here at the foot of the Catskills, in a house that had not one but TWO nearly 2 ft snowfalls the winter we bought the house but months before we took up residence full-time...and snowstorms either go well north of us, or well south. We live in the snow shower zone, the watch-out-there-may-be-flurries zone, the let's-get-just-enough-snow-to-make-it-unpleasantly-slippery-to-drive-but-not-enough-to-hunker-down snow. And those thunderstorms? Sweltering summer days, we entertain ourselves watching the armageddon clouds scoot around us. In fairness, we do get far more than our share of rainbows right above our yard, and I appreciate that, really. However, I definitely feel weather-cheated. Look, we can handle a big snowstorm; the snowblower is fixed, we have extra gas stored in the garage, a new shovel, no place important we have to go. Bring it on...please?
Time is racing....here's my question: is the acceleration of time an age-related phenomenon? Is it a symptom of there's-no-place-I'd-rather-be-than-home-itis? A side effect of being, shall we say, unsatisfied by my means of making a living? A combination of all of the above? Here it is, Tuesday morning, and I'm at the halfway point of my time off already. Okay, Christmas Eve was a full day of cleaning & cooking, and we spent a bit too much time cooking on Christmas Day. But I've also spent hours just vegging, or reading, or knitting (and alas will be spending this evening consulting with the wonderful owner of Amazing Threads in Saugerties as to how to fix the horrific mistake I made in Linda's otherwise gorgeous baby alpaca scarf). We wandered up to Windham to look for Francis X. Driscoll prints (in card form). We've gotten lost in Lost, curled up by the fire. There have been cups of lemon ginger tea and a game of Scrabble (Linda won). There has been leisure time, but still, like a dogsled mushing through the non-existent snow with me trying to hold it back rather than zipping along for the ride, time is lunging forward, and I'd like to register a formal complaint.
Alas, once Dotty began her caterwauling there was no more hope of sleep. Of course, she stopped once I came downstairs and is now sleeping peacefully in her own nest. I'm fighting the urge to go wake her up and see how she likes it! Then began the morning routine of peeking out at the yard through the office windows, turning up the pellet stove, and pouring that lovely, dark, steaming first cup of coffee. One of the greatest inventions of all time has to be the programmable coffeemaker. I never take for granted the visceral pleasure of coming downstairs to the rich, welcoming scent of coffee already waiting for me....steaming hot, darkly beckoning me, the sound of it as I pour it into a carefully chosen mug (moose mugs in the winter although they are a tad too small, in summer & fall, the snake-handle pottery mug made by Susan Minyard of Sweetwater Pottery, and something sunny and bright in the early Spring when the soul longs for a splash of color). The routine continues with the daily--sometimes several times a day--check of the weather channel website...just how cold is it REALLY? Do we have snow to look forward to (hah!)? Is the heat ever going to break? Here's the weather irony...I love weather drama. Give me thunderstorms that shake the ground and light the night; give me the occasional blizzard (ideally, check dates with me first, please) BUT we settle here at the foot of the Catskills, in a house that had not one but TWO nearly 2 ft snowfalls the winter we bought the house but months before we took up residence full-time...and snowstorms either go well north of us, or well south. We live in the snow shower zone, the watch-out-there-may-be-flurries zone, the let's-get-just-enough-snow-to-make-it-unpleasantly-slippery-to-drive-but-not-enough-to-hunker-down snow. And those thunderstorms? Sweltering summer days, we entertain ourselves watching the armageddon clouds scoot around us. In fairness, we do get far more than our share of rainbows right above our yard, and I appreciate that, really. However, I definitely feel weather-cheated. Look, we can handle a big snowstorm; the snowblower is fixed, we have extra gas stored in the garage, a new shovel, no place important we have to go. Bring it on...please?
Time is racing....here's my question: is the acceleration of time an age-related phenomenon? Is it a symptom of there's-no-place-I'd-rather-be-than-home-itis? A side effect of being, shall we say, unsatisfied by my means of making a living? A combination of all of the above? Here it is, Tuesday morning, and I'm at the halfway point of my time off already. Okay, Christmas Eve was a full day of cleaning & cooking, and we spent a bit too much time cooking on Christmas Day. But I've also spent hours just vegging, or reading, or knitting (and alas will be spending this evening consulting with the wonderful owner of Amazing Threads in Saugerties as to how to fix the horrific mistake I made in Linda's otherwise gorgeous baby alpaca scarf). We wandered up to Windham to look for Francis X. Driscoll prints (in card form). We've gotten lost in Lost, curled up by the fire. There have been cups of lemon ginger tea and a game of Scrabble (Linda won). There has been leisure time, but still, like a dogsled mushing through the non-existent snow with me trying to hold it back rather than zipping along for the ride, time is lunging forward, and I'd like to register a formal complaint.
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Christmas Eve
I remember Christmas Eve from childhood...perhaps I've romanticized it, tossed out those memories that don't fit in my mental photo album; after all, mine was not a childhood to write home (or a blog) about. Be that as it may, I remember Christmas Eve as a day of anticipation and pleasure, and can flick through the images like a slideshow: the tree lit with those big, bright C7 bulbs that still make me smile when I see them; the small cones of balsam incense that filled the air with the scent of piney woods; my father's many cryptic comments and teasings about Santa; dressing up and heading out in bitter cold at 11:00 at night to sing at midnight Mass; the heat and incense in the church, everyone scrubbed, shiny inside and out, singing our hearts out in the choir (fortunately there were enough voices to hide my own terrible one), the glory-ous ritual of midnight Mass; coming home and heading straight to bed, tired but too excited to fall right to sleep; that wee-hours-of-the-morning waking up and stretching out a foot to feel if the Christmas stocking laid out on the bed had any weight, then the racing of anticipation as I felt its stuffed roundness in the dark; waking up my sister so we could turn on the light and explore our treasures (we seemed to call a truce every Christmas Eve and I look back at my memory of those nights and wish we could have held onto those giggles and intimacy the rest of the year....and years to come); falling back asleep even while convinced it wasn't possible; and on Christmas morning proper the bated-breath excitement as dad went downstairs to check to be sure Santa had in fact arrived...the teasing that oops, maybe he had skipped us, then the gleeful go-ahead to send us tumbling down the stairs and into the livingroom.
As an adult it seems like that anticipation was the high point, that all-is-right-with-the-world-and-anything-is-possible magic at the cusp of Christmas. Maybe it wasn't like that at all, maybe the mind and age have air-brushed the memories, done a little digital magic, inserting and removing images that don't accurately portray what I want to remember. But since it does no harm and feels good, why not?
That anticipation still survives...there's still magic, still anticipation, even if it's tempered now, more subdued. I still can't wait to watch the Grinch find the strength of "ten Grinches...plus two", watch my sons taunt me as they see how long they can take to open their presents, listen to my sister's laugh, catch my beloved's eye from across the room, breathe in the lights and balsam, feel the peace and contentment. And maybe that's the best gift of all...I may not feel that can't-sit-still-wake-up-in-the-wee-hours giddiness anymore, but the multi-colored peace and satin ornament contentment are soul-felt gifts.
As an adult it seems like that anticipation was the high point, that all-is-right-with-the-world-and-anything-is-possible magic at the cusp of Christmas. Maybe it wasn't like that at all, maybe the mind and age have air-brushed the memories, done a little digital magic, inserting and removing images that don't accurately portray what I want to remember. But since it does no harm and feels good, why not?
That anticipation still survives...there's still magic, still anticipation, even if it's tempered now, more subdued. I still can't wait to watch the Grinch find the strength of "ten Grinches...plus two", watch my sons taunt me as they see how long they can take to open their presents, listen to my sister's laugh, catch my beloved's eye from across the room, breathe in the lights and balsam, feel the peace and contentment. And maybe that's the best gift of all...I may not feel that can't-sit-still-wake-up-in-the-wee-hours giddiness anymore, but the multi-colored peace and satin ornament contentment are soul-felt gifts.
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