Within A Child's Eyes

I hate to admit it, but I’m not feeling very jovial this year, but rather a bit nostalgic about Christmas. I find myself conjuring familiar details from Yule’s gone by, like how the snow felt crunching under my boots as Ma led us along the crowded sidewalks of downtown Worcester, peering into store windows and judging their Christmas displays. One display in particular concerned me. It was a bare-bottom boy lying across his mother’s lap as she spanked him with her big mechanical hand, his red face twisted into an endless squall—forever humiliated. He would certainly be the recipient of a heavy heaping of coal, inspiring a rush of fear that my own misdeeds might be exposed.

Me & Santa I recall the rousing smell of new toys, while taking my turn with a well-groomed department store Santa, dressed in kingly red, ho-ho-hoing from his velvety throne, his all seeing eyes measuring my earnestness, peeking into my soul, exposing my coal-worthy deeds in spite of my new coat and shiny Maryjanes.

Yes nostalgic. The carols of yesterday seem to be carrying bygone Christmases into my present, revisiting the times when poverty nipped every nickel from Ma’s thin purse, and S&H green stamps were the currency of the season. The days of small joys tucked within tough times like diamonds hidden within the folds of an old burlap blanket. I hadn’t yet learned how to be discontented with life, accepting my mother’s world as the way everyone lived, her reassuring words pointing out the praiseworthiness of life, guarding our spirits from hunger and want. Spending contented hours snipping paper chains to drape across our bare walls—turning Styrofoam balls into a galaxy of jeweled ornaments to hang on our tree.

I guess I find myself looking backwards to simpler times because the present seems so complicated—so transitional—so sad. I want to look back to the Rockwellian days, when the sparkle of wonder within a child’s eyes was revered, as was the sanctity of childhood.

My husband Mike & Santa I want to stroll those easy streets once again, mingling with familiar strangers all high on the same holiday cheer. But, I mustn’t fool myself, for even back then evil had a face—clean shaven and reeking of Old Spice. I knew that face. And as I sat on Santa’s knee in front of Ma, I held back my request that Santa would make that face go away, and asked instead for a doll that could cry “mama”.

Blabby Life is indeed a spectral journey, where shadows dance like opaque fairies amidst the twinkling lights of our festivities. These dark stalkers have always been there. They sought to murder the Christ Child, who was whisked away into exile, safe from the blade of Herod’s plan. But this type of evil can never truly win, because the loveless womb from which it crawled has seeded it with barren fear, leaving it no place to go beyond the grave.

If Christmas has taught me anything over my lifetime, it is this: that life takes no break for the holidays. That Christmas is a microcosm of life, a compact version brought into acute focus under the brilliant lights of the season, causing our tears to flow faster and our joys to sing louder. I lost my mother during the holidays of 1998, and five loved ones already this year, including my dear mother-in-law just last week; I’m reeling with the sting of loss, yet I continue to sing the sweet praises of life, inspired by a divine love which expands the human heart, infusing it with the silvery light of hope. This is where the magic lives—within the restorative power of love’s embrace. This, my dear friends, is the spirit of Christmas…our greatest gift to one another.

Whether in mourning or mirthful, let us share this most precious gift of love with those around us, for in doing so we confound evil plans and light a torch in the most desolate of places. Merry Christmas fellow citizens, may our deeds mark the day as good, and compassionate wisdom be our earthly legacy.

Love in The Looming Shadows

There’s a bit of enchantment in the air. It could be coming from the trees, dressed in scorching colors, tossing acorns and apples — shamelessly showing off, or from the cobalt sky as it poses behind the flashy trees, my two pretty sisters, vying for attention. Or perhaps the universe is feeling generous; directing the angels to make haste — sprinkle the magic!

I imagine it’s all of the above, plus a little more: I believe I’ve finally embraced the reality that grief and grace are partners, one taking while the other gives, paradoxical lovers brought together by brokenness and sincerity — I get that I’m actually equipped for this bi-polar journey, where hope rises like the sun, giving birth to the light, and then drops below the bruised horizon, plunging my soul into darkness — for a season. I finally understand that there is a place within my being which grasps the great mystery —that we are timeless spirits, kin to the divine, and that we have within ourselves the resources needed to not only persevere, but to see the invisible, and embrace the eternal.

I experience this magic when I invite Love to guide me through the looming shadows, ministering to me through nature and nurture, sending me serendipitous messages like a secret admirer — a random song pouring like a poem into my soul, subduing me like a strong martini. All things are needful, motivated by love for love. And my path, although strewn with thorns and often blanketed in gloomy skies, is somehow a place of safety…a wayward home away from home.

Ah yes, I speak these things while the sun is high and the calming sway of the martini lingers in my blood. How bold of me to speak so plainly of this enchantment, knowing full well that the ordinary will soon revisit me, leaving dry heaves and dead leaves as the only evidence of the magic…yet still, I will believe.