The Meaning of Christmas?

Michelle tagged me with the challenge to write about "What Christmas Means to You." Her post is below and mine follows.

As a child Christmas was the love of family holding me safe and stories of magic and miracles.

As I got older I grew to realise that there are deeper forms of love and more subtle forms of gift-giving. The love of God giving his son to the world is echoed every day in the love of good people making sacrifices for each other without regrets. The love of friends and family giving time and sharing, understanding and laughter. The love of a life partner giving more than there are words to describe. And the more you embrace that truth of love the more the gifts grow.

Christmas is a reminder that love is more than an emotion
– it is the energy of miracles.

Michelle



The Meaning of Christmas?

I'm not sure that I can tell you anymore. It's not that I don't know. I've lived most of my life fully in the "Reason for the Season," family embraces, children's smiles and expectant giggles, the words of Luke 2: 1-20, the aromatic fumes of Glogg, all thirteen verses of "Good King Wencelas," and singing "Still, Still, Still" in a trio while tears rolled down my cheeks.

I knew it. I lived it. It is still part of me, too. It lives broadly, expansively, lovingly, and gloriously in my memories.

But life moves on and changes, evolves, into things we could never have expected. And the Gift doesn't seem so nicely and tidily wrapped up in shiny paper and bright bows any more, to be trotted out once a year, or even every Sunday and on choir nights.

The Gift has slowly become me - and, believe me, that's not tidy at all! Now, I'm not saying I'm God! Hah! Not at all. But God is in me, part of me. God's not "out there" tied up in the pretty boxes of current religious thought, Walmart's low prices, Wii, and the subprime rate. Nope. The Gift is here in this chubby, old lady with white hair, tennis elbow and sinus problems every morning I wake up. Kind of repulsive when I put it that way, but there it is - the Meaning of Christmas is messy. God made manifest - the Gift amid the messiness.

Go find your Gift this Christmas!

Basket Case

Baskets! I love 'em! I'm not sure what draws me to them or what it says about me, but I have a thing for them.

Today is cleaning day. We just recently had our kitchen painted and are just now putting back the decorations we want back on the walls and above the cabinets. I had several of my baskets up there along with a birdhouse I'm particularly fond of. On our next Flea Market jaunt I believe I'll start looking for more birdhouses to go along with my baskets.

But I have a question for all you housecleaning wizards. (Which I am definitely NOT!) How do you clean your baskets? I'm always afraid of damaging the colors when I use sponge and water or any other liquid cleaner. Just wipe them with a cloth? What?

Thanksgiving

I've been thinking a lot about my mom this last week. Or maybe she's been thinking about me? Whatever, she's been on my mind with all the preparation for Thanksgiving. She passed on almost 24 years ago now. That's hard to get my brain around at times - that she's been gone from my life for that long. A massive stroke took her just a little over two years after being diagnosed with Alzheimer's. But that's another story for another time.

Thanksgiving was Mom's time - her big show. She was upfront and center stage which was an uncomfortable place for her to be. Life for her revolved around Dad and me, you see. Mom was the support staff in the family - chef, housekeeper, secretary and accountant, decorator, maitre'd, event planner and activities director. All that wrapped up in a 5'2", plump, white-haired, smartly dressed and tidy package. She was much more comfortable working behind the scenes than having the lead role.

But at Thanksgiving, Dad and I were the go-fers to her Director status. It was her yearly grand production and her anxiety over it vibrated through the house and the two of us for the weeks ahead.

Depending on the year and who lived where, who was in town, who married, and who had passed away, we could be entertaining 20 to 30 people for Thanksgiving. This was how it was for the 22 years I lived with my parents. We also entertained on Christmas Eve, but that was a different show which revolved around a Swedish meal, complete with Lutfisk and Glogg, and was mostly for my father's side of the family. That was more a combined effort with Dad directing. Another story there, too. But that's Dad's story.

I don't remember the menu ever changing. Those in attendance expected and eagerly anticipated Mom's expert, Francios Pope trained, Thanksgiving cuisine.

Roast Turkey, (of course!) basted by strips of bacon
Mashed Potatoes and Gravy (cornstarch gravy, never flour)
Candied Sweet Potatoes
Mashed Turnips (loads of butter)
Green beans
Cranberries (made with fresh cranberries, but also the canned jellied ones for the lesser trained palates)
Mom's wondrous homemade Pumpkin and Mincemeat Pies with hardsauce (I've never managed her Mince, never!)
And her Piece d'Resistance, Stuffing
Fresh rolls, garnishes of veggies and olives filled out the table along with bottles of Champagne served and sparkling enticingly in Mom's prized crystal.

Dad would be in charge of vacuuming every square inch of the house (walls, curtains, furniture, and every nook and cranny) and scouting out enough chairs. I was bathroom cleaner and duster. The house had to sparkle. We knew it. We'd suffer mother's moaning agony of guilt afterward if it didn't.

On THE DAY Dad was charged with Bartender duty and had better have everyone's favorite liquor of choice and enough ice on hand or sleep in the family room later that night. (Or wish he had!)

I had the distinct and dubious honor, as daughter of the house, of table setting. As a child of eight or ten this was indeed an honor. I adored mother's exquisite Marshall Field's gold threaded table cloth and napkins. That thing was incredibly heavy and draped beautifully. I even loved the smell of it. I'm not sure what it smelled like, exactly. Maybe years of Thanksgiving dinners, Woolite soap and the blue tissue paper mom wrapped it in for storage, but it was a nose-treat for me each year. I'd wince with each drop of gravy or cranberry that our guests would later so blithely splatter on it. I knew what it would take mother to get those spots out! And how she'd agonize over them. I'd always feel somehow responsible, no matter who did it. After all, I was tablecloth proprietor.

I'd lovingly lay mother's Franciscan Bone China (Harvest Wheat pattern with gold inlay and platinum trim) at each place. Place the silver plated flatware from the inside out (right - knife edge towards plate/large spoon/small spoon, left - dinner fork/dessert fork on top of neatly folded napkin). Make sure matching silver plated salts and peppers were filled. And the most painful and harrying part - checking the crystal to make sure there were no chipped water goblets or champagne/sherbets. I dreaded this. If there was a chip my memory would be grilled by mother to find out the how, when, and who from the previous year. I had to be on crystal alert through the entire event.

When the family came, though, most of my duty was over. The aunts and women cousins would be Mom's arms and legs for the duration. I was freed to fend off my continually fighting boy cousins and keep them from murtelizing each other until they departed for home. Another dubious distinction that sometimes resulted in bruised ribs and split lips.

When all was readied for the table after Dad had carved the 20+ pound bird, the crew settled in for their yearly taste bud extravaganza. Grace was said, a Thanksgiving champagne toast was made, and we chowed down. In my experience, nothing has ever compared. Even sitting at the kid table, an ancient wooden card table battered from boy-cousin oxfords and laid with a garishly flowered, lesser tablecloth and our everyday china, my mother's cooking expertise quieted my monster cousins. The first couple of minutes of the meal were always spent in a meditative silence of appreciation. Then the "ooohs" and "aaahs" and "well done, Margarets" broke in and the voices and laughter of family together reverberated off the immaculately vacuumed walls and dusted furniture for the next hour and a half.

She'd done it again. And exceedingly well, as always. Applause!! Applause!!

I've resumed Thanksgiving cooking these last couple of years for my partner's clan after several years' hiatus. This last week as we shopped and cleaned, and as I planned and cooked, I felt Mom closely with me. Bacon draped turkey went into the oven. I made her unique stuffing and got rave reviews and requests for the recipe. I sweated timing and kept an eagle eye on the rolls, though the bottoms burned again, so I know it's the baking sheet and not me.

It's a totally different feeling, different people, and different era of my life, but Mom was there with me while I cooked, and it was good and right. And I am Thank-full. Mom, I love that you stepped out of yourself for one day a year and produced a memory, a lesson, and a charge in bringing family together through sitting at table and enjoying a special meal.

Thanks, Mom. I love you.

Brandy Shot

See that darling little puppy? That's Brandy, a Black Labrador Retreiver, at 10 weeks old. Brandy will be a year old December 1st. She now weighs around 80 lbs and thinks she owns my partner, the house, and everything in it, including two very disgruntled cats who beg to differ...often.

This, also, definitely does not agree with Dusty, our 6 year old Black Lab, who, until Brandy entered the scene on her cutesy over-sized paws, oversaw and protected this house very vigilantly. (How dare those vile felines and sinister squirrels set paw on the Boss's premises!) He still does for the most part, but is distracted from his duty by frequent efforts at putting Brandy in her proper place quite forcefully. But it gets more difficult everyday. And it takes its toll on the furniture, too.

Brandy still chews everything and anything, but mostly paper and tree branches. She shreds paper - any paper from toilet paper, newspapers, and paper towels to magazines, Dorito bags, and cigar wrappers. She usually walks around the house with a shred hanging from her mouth a la Jack Nicholson's toothpick. And for awhile this summer we called her Beaver. No branch that dropped or blew into the yard went without her toothy attention - and disappeared. She boldly tried to drag a six foot branch, leaves and all, back into the house one day, but I did put my foot down on that one.

We also found out she liked to wallow in mud puddles. Beaver changed to Pig for awhile. We kept a mop, bucket and towels handy by the back door.

This morning, though, my partner rose from his bed, blindly grabbed for his glasses on the bed stand. They weren't there. They were on the floor. Oh, thought he, the cat must have knocked them to the floor. Indeed, they were on the floor in front of the stand. He picked them up, put them on, and headed for the bathroom. Mid-hallway he stood stock still. Something was wrong with his left eye, he couldn't see from it. He panicked. Did I have a stroke? He fumbled his way, beginning to sweat, to the bathroom. He faced the mirror and peered, one-eyed, at himself to look for any tell-tale drooping of lid or mouth. Then he noticed it. There was no left lens in his glasses.

I heard the roar from the other end of the house. "Braannnndeeeeee!"

We spent about fifteen minutes shaking out bed linens, looking under bed and dressers with a flashlight. Finally, I shook out the comforter that had been tossed on the cedar chest and saw a glint of light as something fell to the floor - a tiny, piece of lens...gnawed at one end. The rest fell out in pieces as I opened the comforter fully.

Oh, well, my partner needed a new lens prescription anyway.

I just marvel that Brandy's digestive system takes on all this stuff! She seems to suffer no consequences. Her AKC pedigree is pure Labrador Retriever, but I swear there must be some Goat somewhere back there.

I can assure you, the Goat's in the Dog House right now.

Wedding Tears

Well, the wedding is long over now. It was an extraordinary weekend. I don't remember ever seeing more people high on LUUUVVV. Or maybe that was just me.

My own emotions are very difficult for me to express. However, I do latch on to others' emotions and run them through me. I am empathic. It's taken me many years to finally sort out that I actually do have emotions of my own and identify them when they happen. But it still is not easy for me to express them. It feels so odd to own them - very naked. I am often described as aloof and distant.

However, I also have what people term as an "animated face." Italians have expressive hands, for me, it's my face. In my long ago days of youth I was an actress. My face was a real plus for acting. But, when it comes to my own emotions I have to curb my expressions.

Didn't work during the wedding.

One of the bride's maids who I remember meeting first when my son was a freshman at Valpo some 13 years ago told me that she could not look at me during the wedding. The bride's maids were lined up in the front and facing sideways towards my son and his bride in the center. I was on the side opposite this bride's maid, so she could see me very plainly sitting in the front row. She told me that if she glanced at me she just knew she'd totally lose it and burst into tears. My face, it seems, belied the exquisite joy and pride I was feeling as I watched my son and his lovely bride exchange their vows. I was trying very hard not to cry. I was bursting with unshed joyful tears. I hate crying. I do look horrid in it. No sweet tears slowly meandering down a cheek for me. Nope. My whole face screws up like a troll's, my nose and lips swell and...well, who wants to look like that when you're the groom's mother? But, obviously, my facial contortions in working against those tears were more than this bride's maid could handle herself!

When I get the photos from the wedding - and, oh, what a wonderful job the folks at Twice Shy Design did! - I will post a couple. Beautiful pictures and artfully done. A huge thumbs up and many accolades for their fine work.

Knots

I've been away for a bit. I vacationed in Northwestern Ontario. It was amazing! Incredibly peaceful, gorgeous beyond words, and, not just refreshing, but invigorating physically, emotionally and spiritually. And, oh, my, the fish we caught! There is no way you can't catch fish!

But I'll share more about that another time - maybe when I finally get the pictures uploaded from the camera!

Right now I have a wedding on my mind. My son is getting married to an incredible young woman on September 22nd. I am more than delighted - I am thrilled! Such a blessing they are to each other and to all around them. I've loved her as a daughter for some time now.

But I have to get them a wedding present. *sigh* What to get them? I have been wandering online through their gift registries, websites for crystal, and all sorts of giftie type items. Nothing at all hit me as "the gift."

And then it dawned on me that it should be something representative from the Irish side of our family. I'm not sure why, other than the fact that Swedes inhabit both my son's and her family trees, so I felt Orrefors might not be too original an idea.

Okay. So, Irish. Now what? Belleek? Waterford? Cavan? What? I've been scouring Irish gift sites. What would be right for THEM...from me?

There's a little Irish store just north of Wonder Lake in Richmond. My partner, whose family's descent is also the "auld sod," suggested we ride up there this weekend. So, I checked it out first online. Lots of the usual gitchy stuff, but also some lovely original things, too - fabrics, crystal, stained glass, etc. Then my brain realized what my eyes were seeing all over the html pages....knots! Lots and lots of knots. Knots? Hmmmm....

I googled Celtic Knots for their meaning. The true meaning has been lost in time. What the ancient Celts meant by them we really don't know. They are popularly considered a spiritual symbol for eternity, much like the mathematical figure 8 lying on its side - no beginning, no end. In about mid 7th century Irish monks brought about the current Christian symbolism of the Triquetra in their elaborate illustrations of the Bible in the Book of Armagh and the Book of Kells. The Triquetra symbolised the Trinity - eternal Father, Son, and Holy Spirit interlinked as One God. In my days as a pastor's wife (my son's father) I created that Triquetra myself in ecclesiastical embroidery.

I sat and stared at knots.

Then it hit me to look up Celtic Wedding Blessings...oh, how the mind wanders from one place to another! Some lovely things, but one Wedding Vow grabbed me. I've seen it before - I am a Diana Gabaldon fan and if anyone has read her Outlander series they will be familiar with this, too.

Ye are Blood of my Blood, and Bone of my Bone.
I give ye my Body, that we Two might be One.
I give ye my Spirit, `til our Life shall be Done.

Both a spiritual and organic vow, isn't it? Extremely powerful. No doves, butterflies, and happily- ever-afters here. It has the feeling of birth to it. I could have said it to both my children the very first time I saw each of them. It was, indeed, how I felt - bound spiritually and organically to them each - an intimately integral connection that I knew with all my being would not end until the day I pass...and maybe beyond. A knot that tied and bound us eternally to one another no matter what transpired in our individual lives.

Knots, in their binding, twist and turn. No unbroken circles, these, or lazy eternal figure 8s. They are intricate weavings in and around themselves - changing direction, turning in and turning out. Some Celtic Knot designs are used as Mandalas or Labyrinths for meditation on their intricacies. And if you are, like I am, often the one who gets the honor of untangling fishing lines, necklaces, and shoelaces, you know that a knot looks very different from one angle to the next. It takes time, patience, and persistence to figure them out.

We have culturally grown so far from that Celtic understanding of what ties us to one another. Vows, oaths, commitments are taken so lightly. We separate ourselves, stand alone from one another. We are a litigious people fighting for what's "ours," our "rights." We have separated ourselves from Mother Earth and abused her in pursuit of individual convenience and "happiness." We do the same with our very bodies!

Blood of my blood, and bone of my bone

How many of us could stand and make that vow at a marriage? I wonder. How many of us would see marriage as organic as a birth?

It has me wondering.

And now I'm even more confused as to what to get as a wedding present.

A New Pack

I am amazed, thrilled and overwhelmed. I have for so long felt the Lone Wolf when it came to writing. I never in my wildest imagined there were so many other Lone Wolf writers in the world. Now I've discovered blogging and I've seen a Pack, so broad and diversified, connected through the internet, accessible through the internet, that I am - to use an overused expression that I normally avoid - blown away! Pow! I'm out of my vintage chair with the back slat that needs gluing and falls out if I wiggle wrong, and smack on my back on the floor blinking in wonder, gasping to catch my breath!

There are so many of us!

And not just the beginner with the wisps of a novel pixellating across Word in front of his/her nose in silent, exquisite pain on a ten-year-old monitor. But there are successfully published best seller authors, editors, agents, publishers out there encouraging our joyous addiction!

How did this happen? When did it happen? While I've been scurrying about, trying to juggle a job that doesn't support me with family, studies, and eeking out minutes to spend on my fix, a global Writer's Pack has grown like Topsy just a mouse-click away from me!

Wooo. . . .

I shall have to go have a think and a cup of coffee. My knees are still wobbly.