Month: December 2013

The corners heap up with poetry

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The days tumble with meanings. The corners heap up with poetry.

I’ve been reading a lot of Annie Dillard lately.  And this line keeps running through my head (from Teaching A Stone to Talk).  A few years ago I wrote about how our family marks this holy season, this time that is simultaneously so sacred and so hectic for many.

I enumerated the traditions that mark this month for me: the large boxwood wreath on the door with the celadon satin ribbon, the advent calendars, the early, and glorious sunset through the bare branches of the tree outside my office window, the Christmas carols that I have on repeat these days.  I also described my effort to simplify this season which has now moved from new focus to established pattern.  Most people find December crazy.  Yes, I’m aware of more tasks than usual (cards, and gifts, and wrapping) but I don’t feel that much socially busier.  I think people just don’t ask us, maybe.  It’s okay.

This pulling back on craziness makes me more able to see that every day is crammed with holiness.  And this is especially true right now in these days limned with tradition, carols, and cookies.  I’m ever more grateful that I’ve resisted the mayhem that can pull like a tide in December. Every night I sit and gaze at our tree and feel the quiet around me I’m glad that I said no to something.  Equally, the celebrations I attend and the rituals I do participate in all mean so much to me now.  It feels different to attend an event out of deliberate choice than out of obligation, don’t you think?

Last night we trimmed our tree (see Matt hanging an early ornament, above – somehow the blur feels appropriate).  My mother joined us, which was lovely because I have such vivid memories of our childhood Tree Trimming parties.  Everybody was tired and cranky, though, and Grace and Whit were bickering, and my patience felt frayed.  It was not our most peaceful or most joyful evening, to be honest.  Yet there was still Grace and Whit singing Silent Night for us, their little voices quavering and mis-pronouncing “yon virgin” as “young virgin.”  There was still the coffee table piled with ornaments, each one carrying a memory.  There was still our crooked tree and imperfect lights, that I could see over the flickering candles on the dinner table.

It feels like a broken record, maybe, my assertion that there is so much glory and meaning in this ordinary life.  I’m sorry if so.  Every day it seems like there is cloud, and majesty, and awe (my favorite line from Oh Come, Oh Come, Emmanuel).  By stripping away at so many of the extra busy-ness this time of year, I can hear the glorious song of old (It Came Upon a Midnight Clear).  And I never, ever want to stop seeing, and hearing all this beauty.  The poetry and meaning in every corner of my life.

How do you mark this season?

 

Pray without ceasing

The silence is all there is.  It is the alpha and the omega.  It is God’s brooding over the face of the waters; it is the blended note of ten thousand things, the whine of wings.  You take a step in the right direction to pray to this silence, and even address the prayer to “World.”  Distinctions blur.  Quit your tents.  Pray without ceasing.

– Annie Dillard, Teaching A Stone to Talk

2013: the alphabet

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In 2009 and 2011 I wrote posts titled The Alphabet of Right Now.  It seems fitting to do so for 2013, with both reflection and anticipation in my mind, from a place of both gratitude and hope.

Aquaphor.  It’s my duct tape, the solution to everything, and can hold the universe together if necessary.  Chapped lips, dry skin, scabs or scrapes: put some aquaphor on it.

Books. Reading them is a central preoccupation of mine and writing one remains a dearly-held dream.  I love the community I’m a part of at Great New Books and look forward to our sharing our favorite books of 2013 soon.  I’ll keep my favorite a surprise until then!

Coffee.  I drink it in the morning with coconut milk and sugar.  I make it the night before by about 6, and set it to brew in the morning.  It’s one of the highlights of my day.

Divergent.  Adored this series by Veronica Roth and can’t wait to see the movie of the first book, which is out in March.

Eleven and Eight. How is it even possible that Grace is eleven and Whit is eight?

Family. The one I came from and the one I made.  The family that taught me how to fly and the family that taught me how to land.  I love you all.

Galapagos. We are going for spring break and I cannot wait.  It’s all part of my newfound commitment to helping Grace and Whit see the world.

Harry Potter.  I’m in the midst of my third complete reading of the series, and I’m as enchanted as ever.  I love Harry, Hermione, and, most of all, Dumbledore, as well as everything about the world JK Rowling created .

Instagram. Love, love, love.

Juice. I make green juice most mornings, but my favorite combination is ginger and grapefruit.

Kids. (I actually dislike the word “kids,” and prefer “children,” but seemed like a good one for K!). I am without words in the face of all I cannot express.  There’s no question that my subject chose me.

Light.  Every year I’m more aware of the light.  I notice the shifting texture and specific characteristics of each season’s light, and take endless photographs trying to capture it. I never can.

Morning.  I’ve always been a morning person, and this is just becoming more and more true as I get older.  I’m pretty sure that soon I’ll be regularly waking up at dawn.  I like to run then, and read, and watch the sun come up.

Nut allergy. Whit is allergic to tree nuts.  It’s not something we choose to dwell on, and most of the time it’s frankly not a big deal.  But now and then (this summer) we receive a reminder that his allergy is serious and can be life-threatening.

Organ transplantation.  My father-in-law had a kidney transplant on October 27th.  This followed a heart transplant on November 26, 2002.  He is extraordinary and we are all immensely grateful.  When I stop to think about the outrageous miracle that is the fact of someone else’s heart beating in his chest I am without words. Please consider being an organ donor.  There is no greater gift.

Pals. (“F” was taken).  Near and far, old and newer, I’m more grateful than I can express for those people who support, love, and endure me.  I’m no picnic to be close to, I know that. Thank you.  You enrich my life more than I can express.

Quotes. Since sixth grade I have been filling in quote books, writing down lines and images and phrases that touch something deep and often inchoate inside of me.  I share some of my favorites here on Fridays.

Running. I have been a runner since high school, and as long as my joints permit, I’ll be out there, preferably as dawn breaks across the horizon, on the path that runs alongside the Charles River, watching my beloved Boston wake up.

Sports.  I did not play team sports as a child.  I was therefore unfamiliar with all the benefits of being on a team.  It’s a joy to watch Grace and Whit be a part of their respective soccer and hockey teams.

Teachers.  Dani.  Katrina. Brettne.  Mr. Valhouli.  I have been richly blessed with teachers, and I am hugely thankful for those named here and those not, whose wisdom, gentleness, and guidance have helped light my path.

Unable. to come up with “U.”

Vegetables.  Pity Matt, because a standard meal around these parts consists of creamed leeks and a baked sweet potato.  Or a tray of roasted root vegetables that were in the vegetable drawer.  Or half an avocado mashed on toast. A fancy cook I am not.  Further evidence that children are who they are from day one: Grace wants to be a vegetarian and eats everything under the sun (though very little meat and almost no dairy).  Whit will only eat meat, carbs, dairy, and greens.  Kale, spinach, lettuce: great.  Any other vegetable or fruit: no thank you.  He’s peculiar, my boy.

Worry.  I do it.  Way too much.

Xylem. We did a cool science experiment this year where we put white flowers in water with food coloring and watched the different colors spread across the petals.  I believe the xylem were involved here.

Years. Flying by too quickly. In my mind lately, I’ve been hearing: “There are years that ask questions and years that answer.” – Zora Neale Hurston.

Zinnia. Flowers that remind me of my grandmother Nana and of my dear friend Hadley.

I was inspired to revisit my own Alphabet by the list on The Quivering Pen that Dani Shapiro shared last week.

The HerStories Project

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My friends are vitally important to me.  I’ve written about them ad nauseum, from examination of which points in life are the most fertile for making friends to love letters to my sister, my first friend.  I write less about the messy moments in my friendships, but rest assured, I have those too.

I am both delighted and honored to be a part of the HerStories Project.  My essay, A Friendship Forged in the Crucible, about the “friend who walked beside me through some of the most difficult months of my life,” was published on the site and is now included in the book, The HerStories Project: Women Explore the Joy, Pain, and Power of Female Friendships which is released today.

Female friendship is a topic of great interest to me.  Friendship between women contains infinite textures, heartache and deep affection, identification and separation.  Through the prism of friendship, we can see love in most of its grand and many-colored manifestations.  This book explores this fertile and varied terrain with honesty and humor.  I loved every essay.  This would make a great holiday present.  I hope you will check this wonderful anthology out at the link below.

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