The Mountains are Calling

We've tipped over the solstice and now roll downhill toward Independence Day, which always marked the unofficial end of summer's beginning—back when my kids were pint-sized swimmers with goggles too big for their faces and hair bleached pale from chlorine. The Fourth meant one more week of swim league, one more week until family vacation, and a prompt to schedule back-to-school shopping and medical checkups.

We're past that stage now. This year, the Fourth signifies something different: William's week-long company holiday and his return home to adventure in the mountains with us. Saturday we saw a mountain portrait captioned with John Muir's words: "The mountains are calling, and I must go." The phrase keeps circling through my mind, a siren song for cooler weather, leg muscles screaming through miles up of steep incline, panoramic views of the Rockies spreading endlessly beneath us.

But I'm reading something that throws a spoke into that wheel of anticipation. Via audiobook, I'm moving through The Correspondent by Virginia Evans—told entirely through letters, emails, unsent journal entries. Different voices and perspectives charm and beguile me, and the novel reminds me of my father's letters to my mother during his months in Vietnam. Letters, a lost art, reach the highest planes of literary expression in this book. I found myself longing for that form—the deliberate slowness of writing a letter, the care it requires, the permanence of ink on paper.

This morning, driving home from the pool, listening to the audiobook, I felt regret about not having letters from my own life. Then I remembered this blog—seventeen years of writing things down that might otherwise disappear. Not the same as a handwritten letter, but something. The mountains are calling. William's coming home. And somewhere in between, I'm writing it all down.

Three Trees and A Memory

 

We have three trees this year: two miniature specimens decorated with homemade ornaments in the family room and one beribboned, baubled beauty commanding the living room. Only one of the mini trees is real, releasing its faint evergreen perfume from its position near the sliding glass doors, where the heating vent dries it out in real time. The cats have decided we erected these small trees for their amusement—Jack has toppled the LED-lit version twice, sending my favorite kindergarten ornaments skittering under the couch. Both felines drink from the pine-scented bowl of water at the base of our one live tree, dodging needles and dangling ornaments with theatrical precision, intent on provoking whoever settles on the couch.

My parents made Christmas magical when we were growing up, carrying on a tradition from my father's Swiss-German family with devoted precision. They stashed a live tree in the garage or a neighbor's backyard until Christmas Eve, when they hustled us to bed early, gated us onto the top floor of the house, and spent the entire night transforming our living room. By dawn on Christmas Day, every bauble and twinkle light would be positioned with exacting care. The presents, too, appeared in gift-wrapped splendor—no lazy bags or visible tape allowed. My father would "check to see if Santa had come" before releasing us to stampede down the stairs toward our Christmas miracle. Of course, he needed those extra minutes to ensure every twinkle was in place, the stockings hung just so, the presents artfully strewn across the living room carpet.

My father wondered aloud if any of us would carry on his tradition, and none of us could commit to that Christmas Eve marathon. I believe my brother John attempted it once or twice, but I'm too fond of sleep to go that route. I felt waves of guilt about taking the easier path when our kids were small, and now I harbor only mild remorse that we have just one miniature real tree, only a faint whisper of pine in the house, far fewer needles embedded in the carpet.

Dad passed away almost six years ago exactly. I had to calculate the years because it feels both impossibly distant and startlingly recent, time collapsing and expanding in that peculiar way grief has of distorting our perception. I'm crying as I type because we miss him with an ache that hasn't diminished, and he's everywhere at the holidays—present in the lit trees and old-fashioned Christmas carols that drift through our rooms. He wouldn't appreciate the unwrapped Amazon boxes stacked under our tree or the cheating I do with the pre-lit artificial tree, but he wouldn't have said anything. He would have smiled that particular smile of his and done his best to make the holiday special for all of us, accepting our imperfect efforts with the same grace he showed everything.

I know he's here—just as he illuminates the Christmas tree-lit rooms of my mom and my siblings, a presence we all feel when the lights glow warm against December darkness. Merry Christmas, Dad. We're doing our best, even if the trees go up earlier and the magic requires less midnight labor. You taught us what matters wasn't the perfection of the presentation but the love woven through every careful choice, every twinkling light. We carry that forward, imperfectly but with full hearts.

What is Laughter?

Trying to feel the Christmas spirit over here, but it's difficult in sun-baked, drought-stymied Colorado. The tree is up and shedding needles like Charlie Brown's famous little pine, the heat has barely gone on so far this fall, and snow feels like a distant memory. We may get an inch or so tonight, which would herald a faint echo of normalcy and little else. I watched the British Baking show holiday edition, which was filmed in May, and had to laugh at their patently fake sprinkle of "snow" on a few trees and a patch of ground just in front of the baking tent, but it was a bittersweet laugh since the scene struck close to home.

An echo of Christmas past did stir my heart this week, when I went to the high school choir concert on Tuesday. Daniel sang with a young men's group, and they used choreography and hokey Christmas sweaters to warm up the crowd. The genuine laughter was welcome, and primed my emotions for the final song of the evening, when all of the choral groups ringed the auditorium to sing "Peace, Peace" and "Silent Night."  Two extremely talented young ladies stood right behind me on the stairs and their voices brought me to tears. My mask was flooded, and I didn't turn around (to embarrass either of us), but I hope my phone recording caught the lovely lilting tones.

Our pastor (of the church I haven't set a physical foot in for almost two years) sent out a poem yesterday that also got the holiday juices flowing. It's dual references to laughter and sorrow seem particularly apt this year, and I am including it below in the hopes that your end-of-year spirits are similarly lifted. As Rev Mark says in his emails, be well and be blessed.

What is laughter? What is laughter?

It is God waking up! O it is God waking up!

It is the sun poking its sweet head out

From behind a cloud

You have been carrying too long.

Veiling your eyes and heart...

Laughter is the polestar 

Held in the sky by our Beloved,

Who eternally says,

"Yes, dear ones, come this way.

Come this way towards Me and Love!"

-Hafiz

The Power of Language

 "Porch pirates" have cropped up in local news feeds lately: Facebook and NextDoor are full of complaints regarding theft and occasionally exult when  common culprits are nabbed by Ring cameras, and then by the authorities. Just twenty years ago we wouldn't have recognized the terms "porch pirates," "NextDoor," or "Ring." Our changing lingo moves as fast as our changing times. 

Even three years ago we could not have anticipated the word of the year for 2021 - "vaccine." We didn't know about "getting vaxxed" or "anti-vaxxers." The world seemed easier three years ago, before COVID took over our newsfeeds and everyday lives. Our heart rates and anxiety levels have gone up with the entry of "Delta" and "Omicron" into our vocabulary and perhaps you feel, as I do, that I am perpetually memorizing a spelling list that changes shape and length on the daily.

Which makes the holidays more welcome than ever this year. Not in terms of buying, wrapping and baking to-do lists, but in the way that "peace, hope and love" start circulating. Can we go back to "auld lang syne" and embrace the shepherds, the candelabras, the baubles and banter that unearth old feelings of wellbeing and timelessness? I don't know if changing my word list will change my frame of mind, but I'm excited to try.

Dreams and Lights

My dreams have been vivid over the last week, involving a diverse array of people from my past. College friends, old co-workers, childhood playmates all come forward and ask me to participate in some activity with fervent desire, wide-eyed need. The activities differ but in every dream there is one constant - no one is wearing a mask. This absence of masks usually dawns on me toward the end of the dream and I wake up in terror, as if from a nightmare. "How could I not wear a mask?" I think, before the rational mind kicks in and reassures me that the event never occurred, that I have not recently gone on a plane, into a competition, or to a hotel without a face mask.

I wonder if this phenomenon affects my friends and neighbors. Impossible to say, as we go about our newly restructured routines, smiling at each other with our eyes, or standing 6 feet apart on the greenbelt catching up on the whereabouts and well-being of our children. I usually exercise to the point of exhaustion so that I can fall asleep as soon as my head hits the pillow, but it takes a lot less exertion these days to get to that point. My body and mind wake up tired and become more tired as I read the news over coffee. I don't know how doctors, nurses and teachers are managing their jobs, managing the stress. They are heroes.

One thing that inspires me and gives me a boost of energy: our neighborhood Christmas lights. The Willow Creek community usually has a high number of decorators at the holidays - colored lights, white icicles, illuminated reindeer, blow-up Santas - these festive items adorn most properties. This year, it seems that every single house has taken on the job of lighting our December, and I volunteer to do driving errands at night just so I can see the flood of colors, twinkling on fences and even random trees in the greenbelt. Where a month ago we had election signs for Trump or Biden, now we have lights. We even have people volunteering to string lights on communal property (though not while wearing masks). No matter the religion or lack thereof, no matter the political beliefs, we are united in trying to make it through the darkest month as much twinkling hope as we can muster.

 

Panic of the Season

Last week the digital temperature gauge on our kitchen wall dropped so rapidly it would have kept pace with a Vegas roulette machine. An Arctic cold front moved in, along with 4 – 6 inches of snow and ice, and my good mood slid eastward along with the warm weather. Relieved when our morning workout was called off, I dived under the warm, fuzzy blanket on our coach and promised myself a few minutes of extra rest. An hour later, I staggered into the kitchen to make lunches and breakfast, wondering if I could find my way back to the coach at any point during the day. A prolonged period of collapse seemed promising.

The holidays often induce such mood – dives . From the high of opening our newly ordered Christmas photos to the lows of driving through snow and ice to get to numerous appointments, my energies and emotions rise and fall like the notes of “A Little Town of Bethlehem.” On Wednesday I prepared for the storm by organizing the yard and unscrewing the hoses. I restored the lawnchairs to order – one had been flung to the grass, apparently an incidental victim of squirrel-on-squirrel violence – and let the water drain out of the newly freed pipes and hoses. I was mesmerized by the water dripping away and felt my energy float along with it.

The kids feel similar rhythms of excitement and pressure. Between delight in finding our Elf’s new location each morning to the thrill of opening a new link on our Advent chain each night their mood rises and falls depending on their certainty of receiving special presents. I particularly love a story told by a good friend of mine about his grandson, which illustrates the pressures children feel at this time of year.

The child went with his family to an outlet mall for Christmas shopping, where they observed the miraculously short line for Santa’s lap. The parents hustled their son and daughter over to Santa, despite the kids’ protests that they had not prepared their lists yet. The daughter went first and came up with a few desired items, then the young boy took his turn. Santa asked, “What do you want for Christmas this year, sonny?” and the parents’ eyebrows raised when they heard the reply, “Uh . . . bamboo?” Upon walking away together, Mom could not resist asking, “What was that about?” The boy replied, “Don’t ask. I panicked.”

Don’t we all. When the stamps run out with 38 cards left to address, when the sugar cookies burn just as its time to leave for a party, when crazy kid behavior leads parents to threaten to “cancel Christmas,” we all get a bit crazy. It just takes a quick step back (or an extra nap) to see the humor and fun and delight of the season. Wishing you all a cozy blanket and some time to use it.

Family Reflections

I had my class in Spiritual Direction last night after a two – week break. My fellow classmates and I delighted in greeting each other, many hugs were exchanged and holiday stories shared, though no one quite remembered what topic we were on or what books we should be reading. Holiday planning – both for Thanksgiving and for the nascent Christmas season – has started to mask other brain functions.

On the drive to and from class, my carpool buddy and I reflected on how important the class has been to us in just three short months. Even if we can’t get to all of the reading, the lectures and exercises have been heart-felt, often starting mini journeys of discovery. Our task for next week is to put together a small but emotionally detailed family tree, so over Thanksgiving I asked my parents about their life experiences, their families, my childhood, anything I could think of to help me assemble the mosaic of my personal and familial history.

I learned new things which shocked me. For example, my mother spent eighteen months living in a Japanese internment camp when she was a toddler in the late forties. I never knew! Apparently there was no housing in Cody, WY, where her father had been transferred, so she and her family were sent to live in one of the vacant units at Heart Mountain. The Japanese were no longer there (though there had been over 10,000 inhabitants at the height of the war), but Mom remembered the beautiful gardens they left.

I learned that my paternal grandmother had suffered a nervous breakdown when my father returned from Vietnam. Dad said grandmother was stoic when he enlisted but had convinced herself that he would die "over there". When he walked off the plane, she collapsed. There are other stories of nervous breakdowns on his side of the family and I wonder what they would be called today? Depression, anxiety, manic outbreaks? Occasionally I feel the inherited anxiety leaping forth; in fact, the holidays often act as a starting gun for nerves and tension.

The pieces lie at random on my mental puzzle table, but I’ve almost finished the frame of my personal history and partially filled certain relevant events. Asking and listening with a purpose have helped me to understand how I was created, and how my family and environment helped me to shape myself. As I start to put the pieces together I save one side of the puzzle for the future and feel a freedom to plan a new direction that builds on what I need of the past but leaves the rest behind.