christmas

Love

~ aviewfromthiswilderness ~ 2 Comments

I never like starting a piece with a quote. It feels too simplistic and yellow-journlismesque. But here goes:

“Sometimes it is the artist’s task to find out how much music you can still make with what you have left.” This comes from the famous incident when Itzhak Perlman, the polio-stricken, world-class violinist, who during a performance at Lincoln Center, snapped a string at the beginning of a concerto. Rather than stop and move awkwardly backstage to replace the string or the violin, he simply nodded to the conductor to continue, then immediately adjusted his playing on just three strings, not missing a note. The quote had as much to do with his own life as it did that singular performance.

It seems to me that no matter how much we make the best of those holidays which follow a significant loss, the loss is still present; it has to be. To pretend everything is normal, or worse, that annoying pandemic-born phrase, “the new normal,” is a foolhardy act. No, it’s not normal. There’s a hole in the world right in the middle of the gift-giving, the conversations, the Christmas dinner–especially the dinner. We adjust, of course, we work the best we can off of the three strings left, everyone shifting slightly to accommodate the newly-needed positioning. But it certainly can be the elephant in the room.

My mom died in April, and it wasn’t exactly expected. Certainly at nearly ninety-two with already compromised health, I would not call her passing a shock, but when I left for the Netherlands a week earlier, she was fine, even jovial. While gone we bought cheese, and my intention was to share it with Mom. But she died just two days after we returned. Dad’s death was much more anticipated, and at the risk of sounding cold (Merry Christmas Everyone!–nice topic for today, don’t you think?), his death was almost immediately accepted. He had declined so far over the course of the previous two years, and in the one brief moment of lucidity he had while I was present, he told me he supposed he only had a few days left–said it as a matter of fact, an acknowledgement of something he almost welcomed. But Mom had no intention of going anywhere yet.

So we adjust more now than we did back then, though in both cases, the change was noticeable. Dad’s also because his passing was just two months before Christmas.

But here’s what I noticed: I’m paying way more attention these days to those that are here. Hanging onto the conversation longer, thinking more about the gifts I give–are they personal enough and not some last minute purchase to “get it done.” I’m listening more this year–to my son, to my siblings–I’m aware of the spices in the dressing, the timing of the dessert. It’s as if those of us who remain have made the music by filling up the empty spaces with what love we have to give, no longer assuming any of the rest of us will be here next year.

Perhaps I am more focused. The more loved ones exit, the closer attention I pay to those still here in the play, on this stage. Oddly, I can nearly pinpoint the exact moment my adult life began, and someone gave me a present this Christmas which reminded me of that time back then, and two essential truths emerged: That really happened, and I’m still here. We waste so much time not talking to others; we have mastered the art of euphemism and avoidance. We figure that we have time to figure things out, plenty of time to tell them what we’re feeling. And then often without warning they’re gone. So why not turn to those who are left and say, “Listen, I need to tell you what you mean to me…” Being able to still do so just might be our departed loved one’s greatest gift to us. We don’t have everyone we started out with, but we have those who are left, and we have the truth of us in each other’s lives.

I believe the holidays which follow the passing of a loved one, while difficult, just might be the most honest, the most open and transparent. I missed Mom today, and always I miss my father, but this year too I missed, again, Letty, Fr Dan, Dave, and so many more who left in the last sixteen months, left without me taking the time to say what I would have said had I known I’d never get the chance to say anything. No more. That’s their gift to us, right there. This year instead of their absence being only sad, it is also motivating. It’s like they’re still in the shadows silently telling me to love, to just love. And like Virgil’s personified Death, they twitch my ear and whisper, “Live. Live now…I am coming.”

Merry Christmas.

Merry Christmas

~ aviewfromthiswilderness ~ 2 Comments

It has been a bad year, a year of great and significant loss, and I realize this evening the only way to approach Christmas this year is with love and much peace.

It is, after everything else departs us and closes the door, all we have left–that peace and such love, leaving us to realize, sometimes too late, it is all we ever had to begin with.

It’s almost Christmas now, and I can see some stars and what must be a planet in the west. Something about a clear sky on Christmas has always mystified me, captivated my attention and imagination, from the simple, fun thoughts of reindeer and sleighs to the philosophical digressive pondering of First Cause and the imaginative world of proof. I love Christmas morning with its tidings and anticipatory pay-off. But even more I love Christmas Eve, alone, when the sky is a narrative, and there remains enough room for us to fit in our own passages as we need to.  

In the west the fading light, and I pull my collar up higher and remember so much love.

On Christmas morning before our parents were awake, my siblings and I would gather, usually in my sister’s room, to exchange gifts we had bought for each other, before we headed down for the beginning of Christmas Day. It would inevitably still be dark out, and I know we’d lay awake waiting to hear each other also awake in the other room. A tap on the door. A “come in.” And we’d sit on the floor and open our presents.

At some point, our mother would wake our father and he would exclaim, “I thought I said no one up before nine am!” and he couldn’t hide his smile to our laughter at the ludicrous suggestion we’d be up any later than five. It was always cold out during those Long Island years, and often snowy, but we weren’t going outside so it just added to the magic. Dad would be in his robe and slippers and he’d head to the living room as we gathered on the stairs and waited for him to plug in the multi-colored lights on the tree, and those on the rail, bringing to life the otherwise dark room. Mom had, of course, already organized whatever presents we would get into separate piles, and Dad would stand back and she directed us to the right area under the branches, though sometimes it was obvious if an unwrapped toy appeared, clearly already wished for by one of us. Dad would sit on the couch and watch in joy, even through the stream of “Wow, thank you Mom!” wishes continued.

It wouldn’t be long before the aromas of breakfast mixed with the onions and Bell Seasoning already underway for the stuffing, and eventually we’d need to get dressed, if not for church since we might have attended midnight mass, certainly for the droves of family who would soon fill the rooms. It was a beautiful way to grow up. I do not know the possible stresses, fears, and sacrifices that went on behind the scenes—that’s how good they were at it. Then, much later in the day, after everyone else had left and we had all settled into the routine of looking at our gifts again, Dad would emerge from some closet with his gifts for each of us—books he had personally picked out, bought, and wrapped. It remains one of my favorite memories of all of my memories of my dear father.

It’s in the twenties here tonight along the Chesapeake. This is one of those days each year where I’ve been up so long and have done so much that it feels like it should be six hours later than it is. My sister and brother and nieces and nephew are all off in various parts of the country with their families celebrating their Christmases, all of us with some common traditions, all of us with our individual touches to the holiday. Certainly all of us fortunate enough to be celebrating Christmas at all, laughing and telling stories, enjoying the food, the drinks, the sounds of football or Christmas music. We are, to be sure, at peace today. Anyone with family is engulfed in traditions which bring peace to our soul while providing some shared space not only with each other but with the idea of our ancestry and the hope of our posterity. It is a day like Christmas that helps ease the sense of loss and emptiness some have in their lives on this day when we normally would spend time laughing with others who have left us all too soon. Sometimes it takes a day like Christmas to turn that around and move forward again.

I miss the days before society took “nearby” and “not far away” and tossed them to the strong breezes of technology and One World. In that small house around that small table when I was a child were so many relatives it is crazy to conceive how we pulled it off. But no one cared—we were together. Everyone was close enough to “drive over,” and by the time the turkey came out of the oven, a small crowd was sitting and standing and outside and in, laughing and sharing serious moments, because it was Christmas.

I’m going inside again. I bought Michael a book at a local nautical shop and I need to wrap it. He will be gracious enough to act surprised, just as we did with our father when he would predictably surprise us with books forty and fifty years ago. I won’t be calling as many people this year to tell them Merry Christmas, so those that I can talk to, I will let them know how much they mean to me, how important they are to me in this brief flash of time we share.

Peace. And Merry Christmas.

On This Silent Night

~ aviewfromthiswilderness ~ Leave a comment
The Blue’s Brother’s Light Display

It’s misty tonight but not raining, and all the lights have halos from the soft air. Today I slowed down after sixteen weeks of not, followed by a few days of noise–it was all in my mind, of course, but noisy just the same, so this evening I decided to slow down and after standing on the front lawn looking at the moon through the haze in the east, I drove down into town.

I put on some solo piano music from George Winston’s December and rolled slowly past the fish market to the real estate office where Steve and Randy Blue have the best lights I’ve seen. They have music synced with a radio station across the river, and the largest tree in the front keeps beat with the sounds, but I kept my windows rolled up and just listened to George’s deep rendition of Variations on Canon in D. Kids with parents ran through the paths between light displays, and I assume they were yelling, or calling out what they saw, but I heard nothing. Just George and Pachelbel.

I stopped next door at 711 and bought some hot chocolate, talked to Wayne a while in the parking lot, but families started moving past the Nutcracker display to the parking lot, so I drove off toward the bay, pausing in front of Hurd’s Hardware. Jack Hurd has the entire front window filled with illuminated Christmas trees in various colors, and on the left side the trees are several deep. This window against a black sky with no other stores around makes it more silent than it should be. I turned off the car and the radio and rolled the window down and still heard nothing but quiet, a faint spill of music from the light display at the realtors.

Behind Hurd’s and across the street is the village branch of the county library, and tonight my son worked while a local Y hosted kids who had entered their artwork to be hung in the library gallery in the back. I rolled down the street and looked back into the window. This, right here, is one of my favorite things to do in the dead of a cold night in December; to see kids and families laughing and warm inside a window, not able to hear them, but watching them play and talk while outside I can see my breath and my face is tight from the cold. At one table near the front Michael talked to a woman, while over near the door a few kids entered to head back to show their parents their work.

On the way home I rolled into the IGA and could see Kristin from the museum and one of her kids at the checkout, talking to the clerk, laughing. The lot was empty, mostly because it’s Monday but also the rain, and I headed to the river, rolled down the windows, and turned off the car and sat quietly. Out on the Norris Bridge I could hear the whining of truck wheels moving across to White Stone, and the light at the airfield was circling, indicating someone will land at some point tonight, probably Mike in his PT-13 headed back from some weekend show. All of this going on yet all I can hear is the lapping of the Rap on the sand and the slow movement of a heron about fifty feet away in the marsh. To my right in the windows of the yellow house across the reeds is a blue light of a computer or television flashing on the walls.

I like the peace I find when I am outside looking in at Christmastime, and some rebirth of familiar connections take hold of everyone. It is fleeting of course, but present for now. I enjoy watching these flashes of life around me. I try not to be creepy and prefer only to look in public spaces like convenience and hardware stores, but it is nice to catch a place like the library where so much activity is going on behind my music, like shadows on some cave wall. But this year is different than last. Some of the people I used to talk to every day have gone silent, somewhere beyond the ideas and anticipations of those still here. So my world in general has gone mostly silent in the past several months for the first time in three decades.

So tonight I decided a drive made perfect sense; not only because it fills me with some sort of hope to see life being lived, but also because I’ve always been just outside looking in.

This happens to a lot of people, especially this time of year; we have a sense that we’re better off a step back, perhaps a small part of the conversation but not participating as much as others, preferring instead the safety of the next row back instead of the circle of talkers; we are more comfortable on the patio bench quietly watching the stars until someone else who feels awkward comes out and quips about needing some air. That’s where I am, away from the small talk, and I turn around, place my elbows on some wrought iron fence behind me, and look in a everyone laughing. I am okay a step back.

But at the river I sat in silence and thought about why this distance works for me.

It is safely consistent. I know blindfolded how to walk through most of the Blue’s Brother’s light display, and I know Wayne and Maria will be at 711 at this hour. Monday nights Michael always works the library, and Jack’s trees make everyone smile for a few weeks. They make me smile anyway, and I appreciate that. It is predictable and consistent at the end of a year that has been anything but either.

So I drove around listening to Winston’s version of Bach’s Joy and felt completely and literally at peace. Life is out there, through the windows, in the market and the front steps of the convenience store. The kids in the library laugh like Michael used to when I brought him in to sit at those same tables two and a half decades ago. This is what we can count on when we are running out of things to rely upon; that Christmas will bring out people with lights and once dark window displays are somehow almost personified, the trees in Jack’s window display appear more like watermen at the cafe standing around talking about the coming snow.

I slowly rolled down my long, winding driveway until I reached the lamppost near the lawn at the house. The porch is lit with white lights, as usual, and the wreathes illuminate the walls and windows. I had one other significant loss this past year; the Penguin, affectionately known as Pengy, died last January. His wires were shredded from years of moisture and his skin simply popped. Sad really, because I liked seeing him for twenty years at the corner of the porch.

But things change. I have new light displays now someone sent me, and after tonight’s Chocolate Bailey’s on ice I’m not going to care so much anyway. But I do have a suggestion: Turn off the music except for something peaceful, and stay outside for a bit–watch life for a while from the outside, observe it’s consistent laugher and predictable love. Watch others enjoy the moments they have together while they still have those moments.

But don’t stay out there too long. The love is inside.

Hurd’s Hardware, Deltaville
west on the Rappahannock tonight

A Joyeux Noel

~ aviewfromthiswilderness ~ 2 Comments

rockwell

Well before dawn this morning, I could see some stars and what must have been a planet in the west. Something about a clear sky at Christmastime has always mystified me, captivated my attention and imagination, from the simple, fun thoughts of reindeer and sleighs to the philosophical digressive pondering of First Cause and the imaginative world of proof. I love Christmas morning with its tidings and anticipatory pay-off. But even more I love the days earlier, of anticipation, alone, when the sky is a narrative, and the Author was sharp enough to leave enough room to us to fit in our own passages as we need to.  

In the east a sliver of light.

I remember now:

On Christmas morning before our parents were awake (or so we supposed), my siblings and I would gather, usually in my sister’s room, to exchange gifts we had bought for each other, before we headed down for the beginning of Christmas Day. It would inevitably still be dark out, and I know we’d lay awake waiting to hear each other also awake in the other room. A tap on the door. A “come in.” And we’d sit on the floor and open our presents.

At some point (like clockwork, as much an annual tradition as the Turkey or the pies), our mother would wake our father and he would exclaim, “I thought I said no one up before nine am!” and he couldn’t hide his smile to our laughter at the ludicrous suggestion we’d be up any later than five. It was always cold out during those Long Island years, and often snowy, but we weren’t going outside so it just added to the magic. Dad would be in his robe and slippers and he’d head to the living room as we gathered on the stairs and waited for him to plug in the multi-colored lights on the tree, and those on the rail, bringing to life the otherwise dark room. Mom had, of course, already organized whatever presents we would get into separate piles, and Dad would stand back and she directed us to the right area under the branches, though sometimes it was obvious if an unwrapped toy appeared, clearly already wished for by one of us. Dad would sit on the couch and watch in joy, even through the stream of “Wow, thank you Mom!” wishes continued.

It wouldn’t be long before the aromas of breakfast mixed with the onions and Bell Seasoning already underway for the stuffing, and eventually we’d need to get dressed, if not for church since we might have attended midnight mass, certainly for the droves of family who would soon fill the rooms. It was a beautiful way to grow up. I do not know the possible stresses, fears, and sacrifices that went on behind the scenes—that’s how good they were at it. Then, much later in the day after everyone else had left and we had all settled into the routine of looking at our gifts again, Dad would emerge from some closet with his gifts for each of us—books he had personally picked out, bought, and wrapped. It remains one of my favorite memories of all of my memories of my dear father.

It’s in the forties here today along the Chesapeake, and sunny. This is one of those days each year where I’ve been up so long and have done so much that it feels like it should be six hours later than it is. My sister and brother and nieces and nephew are all off in various parts of the country with their families anticipating their own Christmases, all of us with some common traditions, all of us with our individual touches to the holiday. Certainly all of us fortunate enough to be celebrating Christmas, laughing and telling stories, enjoying the food, the drinks, the sounds of football or Christmas music, and especially the welcome sounds of children, with another on the way. We are, to be sure, at peace this year. Anyone with family is engulfed in traditions which help balance our lives; they bring peace to our soul while providing some shared space not only with each other but with the idea of our ancestry, the hope of our posterity.

My father used to sit to the side for most of the holiday and enjoy being surrounded by his family. He’d carve the turkey, and of course disappear toward evening to get the books to give to us, but I picture him most in his chair, watching a game, laughing with us, waiting for Mom to call him to duty in the kitchen. He has moved on, and whatever there might be to know after this life of ours, well, he now knows, and that too brings me great peace.

Two deer stand nearby in the woods, cautious but not fleeing. It’s so quiet out. Absolute peace stretched out like canvas in all directions. On the water some ducks ease by.

I miss the days before society took “nearby” and “not far away” and tossed them to the strong breezes of technology and One World. The people I love are hundreds and even thousands of miles away, and we are used to that now. But this time of year I’m keenly aware of the distance. But in that small house around that small table when I was a child were so many relatives it is crazy to conceive how we pulled it off. But no one cared—we were together. Everyone was close enough to “drive over,” and by the time the turkey came out of the oven, a small crowd was sitting and standing and outside and in, laughing and sharing serious moments, because it was Christmas.

The sun is present now, but it is chilly, so I’m going inside again. I bought Michael a book at a local nautical shop and I need to wrap it to “surprise” him with Christmas evening when the rush of the day has settled down. He will be gracious enough to act surprised, just as we did with our father when he would predictably surprise us with books fifty and more years ago.

Well, except for one time. We had all settled down and we were sitting quietly, even the television off, the games had ended and dinner was done. My sister looked at our father and said, with a smile, “Okay, so where are our books?”

Thank God for memories. They bring us closer, help us to find the simplicity.

This Night, This Day

~ aviewfromthiswilderness ~ 2 Comments

In the east this morning a sliver of light. I stood at the bay and remembered:

More than five decades ago on Christmas morning before our parents were awake (or so we supposed), my siblings and I would gather before we headed down for the beginning of Christmas Day, usually in my sister’s room, to exchange gifts we had bought for each other. It would inevitably still be dark out, and I know the three of us would lay awake waiting to hear each other also awake in the other room. A tap on the door. A “come in.” And we’d sit on the floor and open our presents.

At some point (like clockwork, as much an annual tradition as the turkey or the pies), our mother would wake our father and he would exclaim, “I thought I said no one up before nine am!” and he couldn’t hide his smile to our laughter at the ludicrous suggestion we’d be up any later than five. It was always cold out during those Long Island years, and often snowy, but we weren’t going outside so it just added to the magic. Dad would be in his robe and slippers, and he’d head to the living room as we gathered on the stairs and waited for him to plug in the multi-colored lights on the tree, and those on the rail, bringing to life the otherwise dark room. Mom had, of course, already organized whatever presents we would get into separate piles, and Dad would stand back as she directed us to the right area under the branches, though sometimes it was obvious if an unwrapped toy appeared, clearly already wished for by one of us. Dad would sit on the couch and watch in joy right through the stream of “Wow, thank you Mom!” wishes.

It wouldn’t be long before the aromas of breakfast mixed with the onions and bell seasoning already underway for the stuffing, and eventually we’d need to get dressed, if not for church since we might have attended midnight mass, certainly for the droves of family who would soon fill the rooms. It was a beautiful way to grow up. I do not know the possible stresses, fears, and sacrifices that went on behind the scenes—that’s how good they were at it. Then, much later in the day, after everyone else had left and we had all settled into the routine of looking at our gifts again, Dad would emerge from some closet with his gifts for each of us—books he had personally picked out, bought, and wrapped. It remains one of my favorite memories of all of my memories of my father.

***

It was in the sixties here today along the Chesapeake, and sunny, and to be honest I’m just tired. This is one of those days each year where I’ve been up so long and have done so much that it feels like it should be six hours later than it is. My mother and sister and brother and nieces and nephew and their spouses and offspring are all off in various parts of the country preparing to celebrate their Christmases, all of us with some common traditions, each of us with our individual more recent touches to the holiday. Certainly, in times of such tumultuous anxiety throughout the world, all of us remain fortunate enough to be celebrating Christmas at all, laughing and telling stories, enjoying the food, the drinks, the sounds of football or Christmas music. We are, to be sure, at peace. Anyone with family is engulfed in traditions which help balance our lives; they bring peace to our soul while providing some shared space not only with each other but with memory, the idea of ancestry, the hope for posterity.

My father used to sit to the side for most of the holiday and enjoy being surrounded by his family. He’d carve the turkey, and of course disappear toward evening to get the books to give to us, but these days I picture him most in his chair, watching a game, sipping scotch or wine or a beer, laughing with us, waiting for Mom to call him to duty in the kitchen. He has moved on, and whatever there might be to know after this life of ours, well, he now knows, and that too brings me great peace.

It’s so quiet out tonight. Absolute peace stretched out like canvas in all directions. On the water some buffleheads ease by. Still, there are moments I wish I was somewhere else; or maybe simply some “when” else. I miss the days before society took “nearby” and “not far away” and tossed them to the strong breezes of technology and zoom. In that small house around that small table when I was a child were so many relatives it is crazy to conceive how we pulled it off. But no one cared—we were together. Everyone lived close enough to “drive over,” and by the time the turkey came out of the oven, a small crowd was sitting and standing and outside and in, laughing as well as sharing serious moments, because it was Christmas and we were together, and it was going to be like that forever.

For the day anyway.

The sun is getting low and it’s getting chilly. I’m going inside again. I bought Michael a book at a local nautical shop and I need to wrap it and “surprise” him with it later in the day tomorrow after the lift of Christmas has settled down. And he will be gracious enough to act surprised, just as I did with my father when he would predictably surprise the three of us with books half a century ago.

Geez, fifty years. More.

Hold tight to those around the table tomorrow. And when you have to let go, make sure they know you didn’t want to.

Merry Christmas my friends.