Here’s my Christmas confession: I am a Dabbler. I begin a lot of projects with a great deal of enthusiasm, but as they demand more patience and attention, I wander off. You can see this with all the many, many, many knitting projects I’ve started every year when the temperatures drop below 70. And those little projects to create your own ornaments for your tree – so enticing EVERY year – they are subject to the same kind of treatment as my knitting projects. As a consequence, my Christmas décor has always been what I like to think of as eclectic. But I’m sure to many it simply seems bizarre. And then there are all the decorations I have inherited from family who are, shall we say, no longer physically present in this world.
Living in the moment is not my skill. I tend to be looking forward to, or remembering, events of little consequence. The only time that isn't absolutely true is when I'm writing. Even though writing takes up a lot of wading through banks of memory, research, or speculation, the thing itself happens in the moment. You have to focus, pretty much, on the words you string together. At least that is how it works for me. Readability and accessibility is what matters. I want the words on the page to flow in such a way that people can be carried along on my story journey without fuss or bother.
The air outside was already too warm when the sun came up. August in the San Fernando Valley can be that way. The kitty was quiet in his fully-supplied and comfortable holding room (one of our bathrooms) and I thought I might be able to dress quietly and leave the house before he started his very loud requests for breakfast. But it wasn't to be. So I prepared myself with a scoop of cat food, and cautiously opened the door. He started to come into the hall, but when he realized I had food in my hand, he was happy to let me fill his bowl so he could eat. And I quickly left the room and closed the door. He'd be happy enough in there for another hour, and I could rush to meet my husband for my own breakfast.
Yesterday was hot but beautiful here in the San Fernando Valley. The sky was a brilliant blue, my garden had nooks of deep shade under a pergola draped with the cool green leaves of still-blossoming wisteria.
But I spent most of the day inside. I had a vague sense of unease coupled with an overpowering ennui. At first I thought I was just tired. We had a busy day the day before, entertaining family. But that really hadn't worn me out. We kept it simple, people brought things to eat and drink, and the afternoon was full of lively talk and a lot of laughter.
So why was I feeling so glum? I moved through the day listlessly, trying to motivate myself to at least clean up the remaining dishes, make the bed, fold some clothes. All I could manage was a half-hearted attempt to finish a book I'd started, and that didn't hold my attention for long.
Everything old seems imbued with a kind of extraordinary dimension of a silent knowing about the past. My antique mirror saw my great-grandmother brushing her hair, pinning on a brooch, straightening her collar. The music box played for my grandmother's ears, and my father's when he was a child. The cracked tea cup could just have a tiny bit of DNA from my grandfather or a great uncle I never met. I have kept and valued the doorstop my dad made when he was ten, and the handkerchief box he made for his grandmother still holds mine. Sometimes I feel like I could open an Antiques Roadshow of my own.
After several weeks of pragmatic demands and family exigencies, I scheduled a few days of private retreat in the high desert. I have a book I’m working on, and had made no progress at all since before Christmas last year. My body was weary, my spirit was flagging, and my will to write was down to a few drops at the bottom of a deep well. I hoped rest and peace would bring an infusion of energy, and I was looking forward to being in a place that brought me comfort many years ago.
I remembered long, solitary walks in the high desert where I could listen to bird song and marvel at the diversity of nature in that dry, arid place.
It's a rainy day, and feels so cold after all the heat of the summer and fall. Christmas is coming, and I've had holiday music on all morning. There is pea soup simmering in the crockpot for dinner. Lunch by the fire sounds good. Grilled cheese sounds good, so I fill two slices of sourdough with cheddar cheese and put the sandwich in a pan with melted butter. Hot cocoa also sounds good, so I fill a mug with milk and put that in the microwave.. But I am distracted by a phone call, and when I hang up I realize the sandwich is heading towards burnt. I panic to flip it over with the hope I can rescue it.
Clearly it is too late -- but then I remember one of my favorite dinners as a kid.
The collateral damage of emotional or physical abuse cannot be measured. One family member goes off the rails and the whole family train jumps the track. Connections are broken, some without hope of repair.
The summer has not been gentle here in the San Fernando Valley. Has it been gentle anywhere this year? We've had drought and wild fires, broken all records for hottest days, and spent most of our time trying to stay out of the sun and hydrated. Our air conditioner was sighing and dying about three o'clock in the afternoon during one of our hottest weeks. Our tempers were short. And sleep was hard to come by when the nights were not much cooler than the days.
I - ONE AT A TIME
What will you do with this bright sun that glares through the south window
and makes you open your sleep-sanded eyes?
You only get one day at a time.
All night the wind tossed the garden. The air is giddy with it. Dust to dust. See it whirling and sparkling in the light?
Make a space that fits you well. If you
feel hot and scratchy in that one, make another. Cool your skin with shade and scent of blossom.
Gather scattered leaves and petals, knowing absolutely that the
effort is futile, but never wasted. Hold them for a moment before the wind takes them; as, of course, it will.
II - DESIRE
I am not talking about the black cardboard cutout mountains pasted against the apricot-lavender sky showing off two bright stars.
I am not talking about them.