Whoa....where did the week between Christmas Eve and New Year's Eve go? Days whiz by so fast, I strain to keep up mentally. The holidays are all but over for another year although the decorations remain, waiting patiently to be wrapped up and packed away.
January is on the way; a favorite month for me because of a sense of starting anew. What will the New Year bring?
Tonight we've no particular plans. Some years, I've turned in before the stroke of midnight but this year feel energetic enough to hang in there to watch the fireworks spew forth from the Space Needle (turning 50 years old this year!). Denny bought a bottle of champagne earlier today unbeknownst to me and has it chilling in the fridge. When I went out this afternoon to do a few errands, I bought a bottle of bubbly Italian Prosecco. Now we've two bottles; which one to drink tonight will be our major decision.
The house is empty; all the visitors from Houston returned home and Laura back to Spokane. The house is quiet. The cat sleeps peacefully. The heater turns on and then turns off. There are few sounds. Quiet.
A View Forward and Back
I don't like resolutions much but I'm hoping for favorable states of being in 2012: good health, energy, creativity, peacefulness, and fulfillment. All are within reach through that window on the future that reflects back at us with its mystery and magic.
This painting, The Adoration of the Magi, by Hieronymus Bosch from the 15th century was apparently a significant inspiration for Gian Menotti, the composer of Amahl and the Night Visitors. The opera in one act was commissioned by NBC in 1951 and was the first opera specifically composed for television.
Amahl and the Night Visitors was a favorite of my Mom, the story as much as the music. I grew up with an old LP record of Amahl that we played at Christmastime. As a young girl, she took me to a screening of the movie in the early 1960's in New York City. How she got tickets, I never bothered to ask. In 2001 we saw a live matinee performance at Benaroya Hall in Seattle. Like Mom, the story is the magic of Amahl.
Place: Near Bethlehem
Time: The first century, just after the birth of Christ
Amahl, a disabled boy who can walk only with a crutch, has a problem with telling tall tales and, occasionally, lying. He is sitting outside playing his shepherd's pipe when his mother calls for him. After much persuasion, he enters the house but his mother does not believe him when he tells her there is an amazing star "as big as a window" outside over their roof.
Later that night, Amahl's mother weeps, praying that Amahl not become a beggar. After bedtime , there is a knock at the door and the mother tells Amahl to go see who it is. He is amazed when he sees three splendidly dressed kings (the Magi). They tell the mother and Amahl they are on a long journey to give gifts to a wondrous child and they would like to rest at their house, to which the mother agrees. The mother goes to fetch firewood, and Amahl seizes the opportunity to speak with the kings. King Balthazar answers Amahl's questions about his life as a king and asks what Amahl does. Amahl responds that he was once a shepherd, but his mother had to sell his sheep. Now, he and his mother will have to go begging. Amahl then talks with King Kaspar, who is childlike, eccentric, and a bit deaf. Kaspar shows Amahl his box of magic stones, beads, and licorice, and offers Amahl some of the candy.The mother returns. Amahl is told to go fetch the neighbors so the kings may be fed and entertained properly.
.
After the neighbors have left and the kings are resting, the mother attempts to steal for her son some of the kings' gold that was meant for the Christ Child. She is thwarted by the kings' page. When Amahl wakes to find the page grabbing his mother, he attacks him. Seeing Amahl's weak defense of his mother and understanding the motives for the attempted theft, King Melchior says she may keep the gold as the Holy Child will not need earthly power or wealth to build his kingdom. The mother says she has waited all her life for such a king and asks the kings to take back the gold. She wishes to send a gift but has nothing to send. Amahl, too, has nothing to give the Child except his crutch. When he offers it to the kings, his leg is miraculously healed. With permission from his mother, he leaves with the kings to see the child and give his crutch in thanks for being healed.
I'm missing my Mom so much this Christmas; more than I did last year when her death was so new. Funny how the deep longing for her presence is so much more acute this holiday season. My eyes well up quickly, the emotions just below the surface ready to bubble up at any moment.
Listening to Mom's Christmas choir tapes provides a sure-fire on switch for me to let loose the sadness inside me. The other night we listened to a recording of her choir and this piece in particular brought me back to my childhood Christmases. I've never paid attention to the words until now. This is the Shepherd's Farewell by French composer Hector Berlioz from the mid 19th century. I find it fascinating to learn more about things I took for granted in my young life. Decades later this piece haunts me but in a good way. The lyrics of this piece describe the prayer of the shepherds as they bid goodbye to the Holy family escaping into Egypt. (Matthew 2: 13)
This piece IS my mother set to music. She could have written these words, particularly the last two lines: "God go with you, God protect you....(and most of all) guide you safely through the wild". She was the consummate worrier and the one who prayed for our safety constantly. The wild, the perfect metaphor for all the dangers out there, represents all she ever feared in a single word. I know this. I am her daughter and much the same.
L'enfance du Christ
Thou must leave thy lowly dwelling,
The humble crib, the stable bare.
Babe, all mortal babes excelling,
Content our earthly lot to share. Loving father, loving mother, Shelter thee with tender care.
Blessed Jesus, we implore thee
With humble hearts and holy fear,
In that land that lies before thee,
Forget not us who linger here. May the shepherd's lowly calling Ever to thy heart be dear.
Blessed are ye beyond all measure,
Thou loving father, mother mild;
Guard thee well thy heavenly treasure,
The Prince of peace, the holy child. God go with you, God protect you, Guide you safely through the wild.
I miss you, Mom. Guide you safely through the wild.
Two tickets for the Prince Concert scheduled on 12/19/11 at the Tacoma Dome topped my priority list when tickets went online before Thanksgiving. Years back when Prince performed in Seattle on his alleged "last tour", I regretted never having seen him in concert. Determined not to allow another opportunity to wash by me, I bought tickets quickly, without thinking.
The problem was I didn't consider the month of December; always a rugged proposition for me. I've learned not to over-commit this time of year; life jam-packs with other events (birthday, anniversary, holiday parties and.....all that decorating). Turns out the Christmas party at Dad's adult family home was the same evening and a voice in my head kept saying, "Go to the party; you should go to the party". As days marched by, those tickets became a burden more than a highlight. No nibbles came from my Craigslist posting and now I wonder if the reason was that I was meant to go to the concert and enjoy the hell out of it. When I told Dad that I wouldn't be at his party because of concert tickets, he was fine with it.
D was never very enthusiastic about going to see Prince, insisting that Purple Rain was the only hit song he cared for. I gave some thought to going alone but then....on a whim, asked my sister if she would be interested. She had a two word response: "I'm in!" This was 24 hours beforehand and she was at home, in Houston.
Pertinent digression: Back in the 80's, that one-of-a-kind decade, she introduced me to Prince. Although she's forgotten this, it was she who enticed me to his movie, Purple Rain. I've counted on her on more than a few occasions to turn me on to new experiences. I remember thinking the movie was weird but the music grabbed me and I bought the album in short order. Years later the cassette tape, worn down by repeated play was replaced by a CD.I still pull it out when I want to go back to the 80's.
Picture this scenario: My sister arrived at the airport on a flight from Houston at 5:30 PM. Granted her trip here was planned but still....The concert started at 8 PM in Tacoma. Perfect timing.We stashed her luggage in the back end of the car, drove down I5 to the Tacoma Dome, grabbed a bite to eat, slapped in those earplugs (did we really?), and settled in for an experience in sound and light.
The concert was great; the back-up vocalists and musicians amazing. Purple Rain was the crescendo moment and save for the last performance (he did come back out for a short encore after that but what can top PR?). No first act; it was all Prince. He hasn't changed; rather timeless. Slight, nimble, a first rate musician, a performer. He looked great in his long, black do-rag, tunic top over pants, wearing one white and one black shoe (heels of course). He's 53. Time, it would seem, has done little to his physical appearance.
Here he is in 1984. Where were you in 1984? Were you even on this earth? Many in the audience were souls aloft in 1984. Many of us in the audience were much younger in body but I daresay, sporting the same spirit.
"I only want to see you laughing in the purple rain....."
Ahhhh, sweet Monday. She comes again but none too soon. The past week was rugged. My sign out to the good man taking over for me today started with two admonishments: OMG and LHM. What's LHM you ask? He didn't know either. "Lord have Mercy"; a good southern expression.
This is December 19; eeeeech! I've got so much to do and would much rather write blog posts, watch TV and read.The tree is up but bare. The house is a mess.
My on-call week, the last for the year 2011, logs into the memory bank; soon forgotten as part of the steady stream of sameness with a sprinkle of the unknown and the unique.
This was the week of opposing forces in medicine. By that, I refer to Kidneys vs Heart or Kidneys vs Liver; wicked battles where the requirements for optimal function of one organ stand in direct odds to the requirements of the other. These so called cardio-renal syndromes or hepato-renal syndromes invoke a cringe and dread because good treatments and outcomes are hard to achieve. The best we can hope for, in my opinion, is self-healing. I've never convinced myself that anything I do except "stand by" results in anything other than muddied waters. Sigh. The week was unusually laden with examples of organs at civil war.
Louisa Lung, Harold Heart, Katie Kidney and Larry Liver
"Why can't we all just get along?", I wonder. Something like this, maybe....??
I've been on call all week; there's always one week in December that sucks up 7 days of holiday enjoyment. I suppose I should be glad that I'm off call for Christmas and should look upon these days as the payment for time off around the 25th. I do, of course, but....when there is so much to do and so little energy for the task at hand, the Christmas season turns rugged.
The other night (when it wasn't dripping a cold rain) I told D; "It's time to go out to get a tree. Now. Right now." He willingly accompanied me to the tree lot we've used for the last half dozen years; less than a mile from our house with fresh cut trees from Olalla tree farm in Kitsap County. The lot was quiet, the guy in the trailer half asleep when we pulled up. This was two nights ago.
I told the guy, "Looks like you've got some Christmas trees here." He laughed and told me to take a look. I think I surprised him when I took a two second overview, put my hand on a tree in plain sight, and said, "we'll take this one.". No fuss. Tied to the top of the car, we headed home with the yuletide tree and labored it into the stand along with a bucket of water.
There she (?) stands, lovely and green, unadorned in our living room. A true beauty, this one; almost too pretty to decorate.
We've a wreath on our front door; this is definitely progress. I'm not sure about the bow. The neighbor's wreath has the bow on the bottom; I sort of like that better. Oh, well. Too tired to change it.
Hear ye, hear ye; this is the kind of tree I'm talking about, one that would stay up all year and feed my soul with new books. Christmas trees come in many flavors, y'all.
I still can't get a traditional tree purchased, fitted into the stand, watered, lighted or decorated. I just can't. The thought overwhelms me.
I knew this young girl, Arwen Morgan. She and Laura were classmates and good friends at Blaine Elementary. There were sleepovers, outings to the Folklife Festival (Arwen came from a family of musicians), meals together, a garage sale they organized and secrets that only young girls share. Arwen and Laura went their separate ways after grade school but intermittently stayed in touch. I remember seeing Arwen in a coffee shop a few years back; she came over to greet Denny and me and shared that she was studying at the Cornish School for the Arts. Where had all the years gone? Suddenly Arwen was grown up, just like Laura; young, beautiful and ready to take on life with passionate energy.
I learned this morning that Arwen committed suicide in July of this year; I hadn't heard. Neither had Laura. Her mother, Teresa, overcome with grief and unable to survive her loss, jumped to her death less than 3 weeks ago. What a tragedy; a family ripped apart. Laura and I talked tonight about Arwen's death. Both of us cannot fathom the "whys" of this sadness. She struck us both as a self confident, grounded young woman. Then again, we can never know the mental suffering of another. So sad. So overwhelmingly sad; for Arwen, for her mother, Teresa, and for their family.
I'm filled with memories of a better time tonight; a time when two young girls played together and their parents had hopes and dreams for their future.
Mothers and Fathers are never supposed to lose a child. If so, the natural order of the universe, violated, dissolves into devastating insanity, irreconcilable. I immediately think of my daughter. And, then I think of Teresa's reaction to the loss of her daughter. I get it; from where I stand right now: I get it.
And, then I think of a close girlfriend who suffered the unimaginable; the loss of both her children. How is this survivable, I wonder. I suppose we can only know if we are there, living the agony. Otherwise, we can only wonder.
OK. The only problem with this cartoon is that I'm the dude sitting in the chair surrounded by beer cans and D is the one in the dress with a tree up the skirt.
"I'll do it, I'll do it", I lament. Just give me time to adjust to a new month. It's only December the 5th.
Sigh.
Me thinks this explains why we're all so tired. We need to say goodnight to technology for more than a night. Can you believe most of this, if not all, "happened" in the last five years? What's to happen in the next five?
It's Saturday morning on an early December day. Christmas looms. Call me Scrooge because I am.
My most favorite past-time anytime of the year is to awaken whenever I please and lay in bed with my laptop, drinking coffee and being alone. Sometimes I surf the net. Sometimes I write. If it's a day when the trash trucks pull up outside to haul off recycling and yard waste, even better. Purging and getting rid of the extraneous junk that piles up is pure heaven. I'm talking about the visible and invisible junk of my life.....let it all go.
The house is quiet. But, it's getting on past 10 AM and there is stuff calling to me to be done. I could stay here all day but the passing hours invariably trigger a sense of guilt that I ought be out there doing.
I need to visit Dad after a week's absence. Last weekend my brother was here to take Dad to church and spend quality with him at the AFH. A week is a long time in my Dad's life to go without a visit from me.
I also need to get organized for Christmas. Why do we do this "Christmas thing" to ourselves? It's too much for those of us who are more depleted by the season than energized.
I feel like a mutant for writing this but in the interest of sincerity and honesty; this is it!
