January, for me, has always been two new beginnings. I'm not only beginning a new year, I am turning another year older. And this year it will be 70. Seventy. I am approaching with caution, and disbelief that I have only been on this planet (well, this time anyway) for 70 years.
At sixty I thought -- "ah, free at last, free at last" -- to do what I like, see what I like, eat what I like, drink what I like! I'm old enough that it doesn't matter anymore!
Even though the ornaments are still on the tree;
And even though the lighted reindeer are stll on the lawn;
The week after Christmas has a stripped down, self contained aspect.
The stuffed Santa knows he will soon be put back in the old sea chest,
And the sagging branches of the tree know they will soon be outside on the curb for recycling.
It feels like there is more air and more light (well, there IS more daylight!);
It feels like the first peeling back of a layer that will reveal a sturdy newness, something unused, fresh, and real.
There's a grandkid kicking a ball on the back lawn, and the Christmas lemons
are ready to pick.
A happy newness to all and to all a good year!
Christmas presents or Christmas presence? I've been thinking about those two words for some time. Obviously they sound the same, obviously they have completely different meanings. Or do they? Sometimes what we crave the most is not a thing, but a connection.
Presents are easy...presence can be really hard. Hearing is pretty uncomplicated...listening, not so much. The usual dialogues that make up our encounters don't require much thought. "How are you?" "Oh, I'm fine. You?" "Pretty chilly out today!" "How about them Bears?" "How 'bout those guys?!"
It’s 1957 and even though it is winter and cloudy, smog gives an acid-edge to the air in West Los Angeles. But it is what I know as normal for that time and place, and the weather seems right to me even though it’s a little hard to breathe.
Things at home are dark and chilly. That’s the only way I know how to describe it. My mom and dad aren’t speaking to each other, but they aren’t arguing either. One little brother worries too much for a seven-year old; and the other little brother is more agile and quick than any two-year old I’ve ever known, with a decidedly mischievous bent. I am fifteen, and having just gotten my first paycheck from Curries’ Mile-High Ice Cream Store, I am Christmas shopping.
For as long as I can remember, I have been interested in the history of the things that are part of my life. The history was often recited to me when I was very young, and having received the information, I never thought to question it again. For instance, there are four caned chairs that have been in my grandmother's house, garage, my dad's house, workshop, my first apartment, and are now part of the furniture my husband and I treasure. These chairs were hand made, and my grandmother, dad and I have all, at one point, undertaken to restore the caned seats. This is a tedious and back-breaking job, so the last time they needed attention, I actually paid somebody else to do it. They are beautiful pieces, and what I knew, what I had been told, was that my grandfather had made them in the early days of his marriage to my grandmother. I was sure that was true, and have repeated the story many times to family and friends. But a couple of years ago, when my dad was
I have been retired for four years, one month, two weeks, and three days. And I am still trying to discover who I am or what I can be outside of who I was in the workplace. It's shocking to me how much of my "self" was defined and reinforced by what I did during those forty years.
Nothing seems to have prepared me for the freedom to do exactly what I want to do with my time. I'm slow to learn new ways of being, that's obvious. And it isn't that I don't enjoy the luxury of sleeping in of a morning, or lingering over the paper, or reading a novel in the middle of the day. But I do miss the daily routine, the conversation with co-workers, the working lunches...and the feedback and reinforcement (positive or negative!) that what I am doing makes a difference.
In 1949, when I was seven years old, Kathy Fiscus fell down a well in San Marino, California. Stan Chambers was right there in my living room, on our brand-new TV, telling us about the tragedy, with pictures. The response of the community was swift, but Kathy didn't survive the fall and the lack of oxygen. She died at the age of three, small enough to fall through a hole in the world. You remember things like that when you not only hear about them but can see them as well. So the new technology brought tragedy closer to us, and we all shared some of the pain.
