"Misty Watercolor Memories..."

I wake to a snowy morning, with school delays and closings scrolling along the bottom of the 6:00 AM news broadcast.  Snow days carry so many memories.  As a child I remember the tremendous joy of an unexpected reprieve from school. 

Memories of my child-rearing years focus on the pleasures of an unscheduled day with three ecstatic children -- the gift of "no school" and piles of fluffy snow was something to treasure.  The reality of those snow days was the repetitious process of gathering wet jackets, snowpants, scarves, hats, and gloves and shoving them into the dryer as I mopped up water on the kitchen floor and put cocoa on the stove to warm -- and then gathering the warm, dry outerwear from the dryer as everyone headed back outside for another round of sledding and horseplay in the lovely white stuff.  The memory that warms my heart, though, is the pleasure of having all three children and their friends together for the day -- hot cocoa and cookies from the oven warming their hands and hearts. 

This past week, our snow day was a time to gather my three little grandchildren together at my house.  For the past year and a half, I have cared for them at my son's home; this year, Alivia began full-day kindergarten, which means she and Luke have only an hour together in the morning to play.  They were so excited at the thought of spending the snow day at Grammy's house -- an entire day together.  We worked on a craft project, which my artsy little ones love -- snowmen made from socks -- as the snow gently fell on the outside world.

During the afternoon, I held them in my lap as I read favorite books to them -- and we recalled the days when they were babies together, and I snuggled them in my lap anytime we all felt the need for the warmth of a hug.  They carry so many warm memories of those years together in my cozy old house, and I cherish those memories myself.  I know the reality was less than idyllic -- stiff joints and aching back for Grammy, tantrums, diapers, the craziness of life with toddlers -- but these are the memories that must be deliberately summoned.  The memories that come to mind instead are those that have been gently colored by the brushstrokes of time -- the peaceful moments when I held two sleeping babies in my arms, the sight of two precious little heads side by side playing with their dolls or their blocks.  Even now, as I lay on Emma's bed at naptime, with pain in my back and my hands going numb from rubbing her legs as I sing to her, the memory I carry instead is of her precious little face on the pillow beside me.

And, while the snow day this past week was hectic, noisy, long, and very tiring, already my "misty memory" is one of a perfect day -- all three of my beloved little ones together again in my old house, playing, drawing, laughing, making snowmen that will not melt away, and memories that will become more and more beautiful with time -- 

Sunday Morning

 

I sleep in a bit on Sunday morning, and rise slowly, enjoying the extra minutes of rest.  In these winter months, I have no birdsong or rays of sun filtering through the blinds to wake me.  I turn on the coffee, open the curtains, and look out at the dreary landscape on this January morning.  How I love this quiet time, though, with my mug of coffee, my journal, my books and my newspaper at my side. 

The first two weeks of January have been difficult -- the sorrow of a much-loved uncle who is seriously ill, a rib injury that has sidelined me a bit, illnesses of other friends and family. The national news speaks of more strife and anger over decisions that have to be made on the economy, social programs, gun control, and protecting the public from the mentally ill and the criminally angry among us.

And now, as I write, my Sunday is almost over -- a day of household chores, grocery shopping, and an afternoon of soup simmering on the stove.  A simple supper of soup and bread -- and a quiet evening ahead to prepare myself for the  coming week, whatever it may bring.  I am thankful for the peaceful moments in these difficult days --


The Wistfulness of Being Sixty

The Facebook photo I look at is a great one -- most likely taken by a grandchild or friend on some summer outing -- a closeup of a sixty-something friend of mine that somehow reflects the spirit of the woman behind the photo.  Nathalie's expression is of one deep in thought, and there is a wistfulness in her eyes.  On the same Facebook page there is an old group photo of one of the local bands of our youth, the lead singer a long-time friend of mine.  And I remember those times -- when we all looked forward to the future with great anticipation; no matter how wonderful or how lonely our high school lives had been, we just knew in our hearts that we would find love and happiness and success in the larger world.

We went our separate ways, and journeyed through life -- doing our best to create the lives of our dreams.  Some of us found great love; some reached the pinnacle of career success.  Some were blessed with good health, loving children, much joy.  Others struggled through life -- illness, family strife, job losses.  Some died.

For most of us, life was a balance of both the best and the worst times.  As we enter our sixties, we are a sundry lot.  Some enter this decade in financial comfort and good health.  Others are blessed with the contentment of having realized their dreams.  Some struggle daily with money or family worries and health issues.  All of us have experienced both those shining moments when the world seems perfect, and those crushing moments of deep loss and sadness, when it seems we will never rise up from the depths of sorrow.

However, as we move through our sixties, we come to realize that we are finally comfortable in our own skin.  We no longer judge ourselves by the standards of others.  We have reached the point where we can be who we are with confidence.  Whatever has happened in our lives -- both good and bad -- has shaped us into more interesting people than we were at seventeen.  We know that we are capable of working through the hard times and celebrating even the smallest moments of pleasure.  We are not in competition anymore -- we are what we are, and our family and friends either love us for what we are or they don't.  If they don't, we just move along with our lives without their approval.

There is a sense of freedom and accomplishment at this age, but there is also a wistfulness -- a remembrance of the dreams that were shattered, the losses that have left holes in our hearts, and a wish that some things could have turned out differently.  It is that wistfulness I see in Nathalie's face, and feel in my own heart.  We may be wiser and more confident and at peace with ourselves, but deep inside there is a wistfulness for that innocent hopefulness of long ago -- the "if only" in each of our lives.

Winter White

 

 

Early this morning I slipped on my boots and winter jacket, grabbed my camera, and went out into the icy cold air to take some photos of the new snow.  We have had two snowstorms in the days following Christmas, leaving our neighborhood blanketed with gentle mounds of white.  There is a hint of January in the crisp coldness, and the late afternoon light on the snow speaks of cozy kitchen hours as I prepare supper while watching the birds linger at the feeder for a last-minute meal before darkness falls.

 

Today I slowly "untrimmed" my home -- packing away the Christmas decorations for another year.  I savor every minute of the holiday season, but by the last day or two of December, I am ready to replace the warm hues of Christmas with a soothing palette of winter whites. 

 

 

As I sit here in this last hour of my Sunday, the house is filled with the serenity of white candles garlanded by ivy and white roses, a white ironstone soup tureen on the dining room table, a white swan vase in the living room, and a garland of tiny white birds on the top of the china closet.  The white candles in the front windows will remain until New Year's Day, spilling their soft light onto the snow which covers the porch floor.

 

Today I bid good-bye to the clutter, chaos and magnificence of the Christmas season, and to the year 2012 as well.  I look forward to the quiet month of January, when snow and cold will prevail, and we will seek out the warmth of home at the end of each day.  Tomorrow we will look back on the year past and let it slip away -- both its joys and heartaches -- and we will prepare for the unknown in the new year ahead. 

 

May this new year be filled with blessings, simple pleasures, good health and contentment for us all -

 

Happy New Year!!

 

 

 





The Morning After

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The morning after Christmas -- the day you wake up and realize that the craziness of Christmas preparations is over.  I wander slowly through the house this morning, gazing at the decorations that have just a bit more time left on display.  There is a peacefulness in knowing that this most beautiful of seasons is drawing to a close.  Yesterday was the culmination of a month of planning and frenzied activity, and today I can relax in the knowledge that all went well and I can now savor the few remaining days of the season in more quiet pursuits.

I have many lovely memories from this Christmas to hold in my heart -- a holiday tea, my afternoon at the Altamont Victorian Celebration, my grandson's preschool pageant, a visit with a beloved aunt & uncle, a quiet supper with my brother-in-law, Christmas Eve church services, and an after-church gathering in my nephew's home.

On Christmas morning we lingered over coffee, bagels and cinnamon buns, and then I prepared a casserole of mushrooms, onions and shallots to roast at my son's house.  We gathered there in the afternoon -- all of my children, their families, a family friend, my father-in-law, sister-in-law and her family -- sipping wine, enjoying  appetizers, opening gifts, and savoring the aroma of an herbed beef tenderloin slowly roasting.  The little ones were precious in their Christmas finery -- giggling and tumbling together like little puppies.  I helped set the tables, enjoying the breathtaking view of the Berkshire mountains from the dining room window.  A dusting of snow covered the ground, a fire softly burned in the woodstove, and dusk slowly turned to the darkness of a winter evening. 

 

Dinner was delicious, and we lingered at the table, talking and laughing -- not really wanting the day to come to an end.  But, with tired body and full heart, I finally acknowledged my sleepiness, and we headed for home.  Better than any gift I received, were the hugs and kisses from my precious little grandchildren -- children filled with the wonder and innocence of Christmas.

 

And, now I sit here quietly, so thankful that the day ahead is unscheduled.  I look forward to the days between Christmas and the New Year with pleasurable anticipation -- time for myself, with no holiday activities that require planning or work -- time to relax over tea with a favorite cousin, maybe a trip to the bookstore to use one of my gift certificates, early mornings when I can linger as I am now, with coffee at hand.  I love the Christmas season in all of its harried splendor, and I still feel the excitement of a child on Christmas morning, but I think possibly what I love best is the morning after.

 



The Light of Love -- The Preschool Nativity

We sat together in the front row -  Luke's parents, sister, great-grandfather, aunt, and two sets of grandparents -- and watched the sweet faces of four-year-olds acting out the age-old story of the Nativity.  Their teacher was at their sides -- coaching them with their lines and encouraging them.  Some of them spoke so softly they could barely be heard, and others belted out their parts.  Watching a tiny little Mary wrap the Baby Jesus in swaddling clothes was precious.  They sang Christmas songs and then hurried offstage to the loving arms of their families.

Last year I sat in this same room watching my granddaughter, Alivia, play an angel in her Nativity program.  There was only one difference this year -- as I looked at the innocent faces onstage, tears filled my eyes as I thought of the shooter who looked into faces such as these last Friday and shot them, point-blank and repeatedly.  How and why could he slaughter these innocents???  

I pushed these thoughts from my mind as the birthday party for Jesus began -- a long table of happy little children celebrating Christmas in their safe little preschool world, with loving families close by. 

Great-grandpa and both sets of grandparents headed home with Luke to enjoy a "family lunch."  It was a simple lunch -- soup, grilled cheese sandwiches and ice cream cones -- but to Luke and Emma it was special -- a gathering of people who celebrate each of them as individuals and who will strive to help them become the very best people they can be.   They basked in the light of love at that dining room table -- the same light of love that filled the preschool this morning -- the light that was born on that long-ago Christmas morning.

Terror in Connecticut

This morning when the shooting began, Alivia was settling into her day at kindergarten; Lucas was "safely" delivered at preschool, and Emma was with me, picking up Grampy for a trip to Walmart.  My three precious ones in their secure Friday morning locations -- and yet, not so far from here, little ones like them were terrified by the sounds of gunshots, and twenty of them  the fatal targets of this shooter.

 

I didn't hear about it until mid-afternoon, long after the terror had taken place.  My first emotion was agony for the victims, the parents, everyone personally touched by this tragedy.  My second emotion was to hold Lucas tightly in my arms, thankful that Emma was peacefully asleep upstairs, Alivia's class was safe, and Luke was snuggling with me watching Scooby-Doo.

 

My next thoughts were, once again, what is wrong in our society that produces people who are so angry or psychologically scarred, or violent that they vent their personal hatred on those they have never met -- those innocents who happen to be in the wrong place at the wrong time?

 

When these terrible things happen, we talk about stricter gun controls and stronger security measures, but these are not the crux of the problem.  The problem is something much deeper.  When I was growing up in the 1950's and 1960's, many of my classmates had guns and they knew how to use them -- they hunted with their fathers, and did target practice at the local gravel pit -- but we never had to worry about them shooting US.  The thought never would have crossed their minds. 

 

What is our failing as a society, or as parents??  Is there too much violence on TV, in the movies and on video games?  Do children grow up with the lines blurred between fiction and reality?  Are their lives too regimented?  Do we talk to them enough and let them express their feelings, and help them to understand these feelings?  Are we too involved in our own "dramas" to recognize when our children have psychological problems, or too ashamed to admit it and seek help for them? 

 

I don't know the answers.  I just know that tonight my heart bleeds for this quiet little Connecticut community -- and all I can think of is the terror of those precious little ones, and the agony of their parents. 

 

Please God, Bless Us All --