Keeping my bedroom tidy hasn’t been as difficult as I had worried it would be. With the exception of Christmas Day, I’ve made the bed every day since we moved back into the room. As tempted as I sometimes am to leave clothes lying around, I keep forcing myself to put them away or throw them in the hamper. I’ve even dusted and vacuumed the room several times.
My hubby also seems to be enjoying the clutter-free zone and is doing his part to keep it that way. On Christmas, when he saw that I hadn’t made the bed, he straightened up the comforters himself. On another day he said, “You know what’s ruining the Zen feeling for me? The credit card and receipt you left on the dresser.” I replied, “You’re right, and also the little pile of tools you left on your shelf.” Next day the credit card, receipt, and tools were gone. Neat!
Have you heard the old joke about the idealistic teenager who tells his mother that he wants to clean up the world and she replies, “Good! You can start with your room!”? I’ve heard countless variations on the joke over the years. It was never more than mildly humorous. Like most jokes, it’s gotten less funny with each repetition.
But, as the humor has waned, I’ve come to see the wisdom in the joke. The world needs to be cleaned up, now more than ever. It’s not just that some things are going wrong with the world, but that most of them are. All the progress that we’ve made as a society over the last 100 years is being deliberately undone by evil and destructive people, plus climate change is no longer just a theoretically bogeyman, but a frightening reality. The world is both figuratively and literally on fire. I wish I could say that was hyperbole. It’s not.
And 2019 was especially difficult, because I could see how much worse everything was getting, but I couldn’t do anything to stop it. I couldn’t control any of it, not the government, the big corporations, Republicans or Democrats (or anyone else, for that matter), guns and gun owners, the climate, or any of dozens of the other things that were making me anxious and depressed.
Powerlessness in the face of so much horror is a bitter pill to swallow. I didn’t take it well. I hit a breaking point in 2019, and I broke.
But I’m not made out of glass, and I didn’t shatter, thanks to the much needed epiphany I had along the way. I don’t remember which self-righteous, nasty piece of work I was watching on TV when I had the epiphany. I just remember thinking that this person would take one look at me and my house, laugh at me, and say, “Hah! You’re a mess. Your house is a mess. You can’t even control yourself and your home, but you think you know what’s best for this world?”
That person would be right. (They’d also be a hypocrite, because you know that if you could examine their lives up-close, you’d discover that they’re even more of a hot mess. But the point still stands.) I do have a lot of nerve telling anyone how the world ought to be run when I can’t even run my own life well. But I know that I can run my life well, and I will run my life well, or at least better.
So, though 2019 taught me the painful depths of my own powerlessness, it also taught me about how much power I do have. I have power over myself. I have power over my immediate surroundings. And I think it’s possible that after I’m done taking control of myself and my surroundings that I might be able to extend my sphere of influence. But for now and for the foreseeable future, I am concentrating only on what I can control in my own life. I may be able to help clean up the world someday, and I hope sooner rather than later, but I need to start with my room.
It had never occurred to me before that music and thinking are so much alike. In fact you could say music is another way of thinking, or maybe thinking is another kind of music
Sometimes I see, hear, or read things that cause a strange sensation in my brain. It’s like an itch, or a prickle, a premonition, a flutter. I often think of it as a “nibble,” like a fish rising to take the bait. It’s an idea swimming up from the depths of my mind. Whether it’s an idea for a story, post, or poem, or for a piece of music or art, it’s always exciting.
There’s so much potential in a nibble, but a nibble is not a catch. A nibble is just an invitation to the struggle. It means there’s work to be done. Landing a fish takes time, finesse, and luck. It might get away, or I might catch it only to find that it’s too small to keep. Every once in a while, I catch one worth showing off and bragging over. But I can’t know which it will be until I’ve pulled it out of the water.
The problem is, and always will be, that it’s easier to dream about all the fish swimming in the sea, and to romanticize the ones that got away, than it is to do the work of reeling one in.
My husband asked me today, “Are you coasting yet?” The answer to that is most definitely yes. I slept until about noon. Though I had to rush to the post office (where there was a package waiting for me) and to the library (where there were books waiting for me), I went into Sloth Mode as soon as I got home. I refused to do anything workish or difficult. I simply finished my coffee, ate a leisurely lunch, and then did some “arting.”
Arting (or “making art,” as most people would call it) is one of the main activities going on around here right now, on account of the ongoing Snowflake Art Contest. The contest was part of our Advent calendar, and my goal was to spend time with the kids. I thought an hour or so of crafting paper snowflakes with them would be just the thing.
But, as it turned out, the kids wanted a big, serious contest with big, serious art and they wanted to start right away, without me. So, now we’re all working on art projects as we find the time and inspiration. We’re allowed to make as many entries as we like. The only rules are that the projects must be forms of art, they must contain at least one snowflake, and they must be completed by New Year’s Eve.
I finished my first project today. There is hardly anything more relaxing and satisfying than making paper snowflakes, so my project is very snowflakeful. I’m pleased with the way it came out. When I finally find my camera, I will take a picture and post it.
The 1st-prize winner will get to choose first from among four prizes: a stuffed animal, a tin of putty, Tic Tacs, and a $1 scratch-off ticket. The kids both want the stuffed animal. Livia asked me today about which prize I’d choose, because she wanted assurances that I wouldn’t take the animal. I’m thinking some Tic Tacs might be nice, but I wouldn’t say no to the lottery ticket, because maybe there’s some Christmas luck in it.
I haven’t decided yet how I’ll sloth away the evening. I might go to Target to look at the clearance Christmas items. That might not sound super slothy, but I find bargain shopping to be relaxing, so it will feel slothful to me. Other options include working on another snowflake project, reading a book, or watching a movie. It doesn’t matter much. They’re all fun activities. I’m just relieved to have made it through the holidays and to now be coasting along to the end of the year.
“Never waste diamonds on a hoe.” This, Marshall told us, is the second rule of Minecraft. I’m certain that he didn’t understand the double entendre (YouTube strikes again), though he may have suspected that there was a joke in there somewhere. However, he takes his Minecraft seriously, and after thinking about it more, he amended his statement, saying that it was maybe the third rule, the first two being “Never dig straight down” and “Never dig straight up.” Good to know.
Saturday, October 26th, was your first fencing tournament, the Pumpkin Smash. Before the competition the head of the fencing academy gave a speech which was inspirational but so philosophical it probably went right over most of the kids’ heads. He talked about how fencing is “like life, but super condensed.” He reminded the competitors not to be distracted by things that weren’t important, to focus on their technique and not on winning (“Observe and correct”). He told them that they could win or be beaten, but they couldn’t lose unless they gave up. You both took 4th place, which was good (parity makes life easier whenever children are involved, because it forestalls jealousy). Livia maintained a wonderfully positive attitude. Marshall was extra mindful of his technique. You both made me proud.
We still don’t clean the house as often as we should, but we must be improving, because you no longer assume that cleaning means visitors will be arriving imminently. Now you at least ask, “Is someone coming over, or are you just cleaning?”
On Tuesday, the last day of your summer vacation, we took you to Worcester for the day. We went there primarily for furniture shopping. The bedroom set we’d been thinking about buying was priced nicely at a furniture store there. We not only bought the bedroom set for ourselves, but we also got a good deal on a new bedroom set for Livia. Afterward, to reward you for your patience, we took you to the Ecotarium, which you were just young enough to still enjoy. The highlights were an outdoor marimba/xylophone on the playground, a little train ride around the perimeter of the property, a bubble-making installation, and a wind booth. There was also a gift shop, where we bought mood rings and astronaut ice cream, proving that museum gift shops haven’t changed much since I was a kid.
I did not break down yesterday, scream at the kids, or cry afterward. OK, maybe I did a little, but I got it back under control. Now I repeat to myself, “Stress is for rookies, and this ain’t my first Christmas Rodeo. Stress is for rookies, and this ain’t my first Christmas Rodeo. Stress is for rookies . . .” And if I can survive these two days, I can coast to the end of the year. All I have to do is get through two days. Two days ’til coasting.
I am trying to remember today that most of my holiday stress is self-imposed. I have a lot to do, and it’s probably more than I can realistically accomplish. So I am dividing my to-do list into three parts:
Must Do
Ideally Would Do, but the World Won’t End If I Don’t
Would Be Great, but We All Know It’s not Happening
The critical details are that the house must be clean enough that my parents won’t be repulsed, we must have food to feed them, and we must have a wrapped gift for everyone we’ll see on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. Everything else is merely icing on the Christmas cookie. My mantra: Stress is for rookies, and this isn’t my first Christmas Rodeo.
We can know that the darkness is coming, know its ways, and be prepared for it, and it can still creep up on us and nearly swallow us whole when we’re least prepared for it. But we won’t let the darkness win. It’s time to turn on the prettiest lights, play the cheeriest music and movies, drink the warmest beverages, eat the tastiest comfort food, curl up under the coziest blankets, read the most wonderful books, talk to the nicest people, and whatever else cheers us up the most when the days are at their darkest. We have made it almost to the end of the year, and we deserve all the best of everything.
Today is the 21st day of the Virtual Advent Tour, hosted by my best friend Sprite at Sprite Writes. Every year the Tour reminds me to think about what I love most about the holidays, to be grateful for the gifts of the season, and to broaden my mind by learning about other people’s traditions. I’m excited to be taking part in the Tour for the first time this year.
One of the things I love most about the holiday season is digging into my boxes of Christmas decorations and reacquainting myself with certain old and cherished belongings. I know that Christmas isn’t supposed to be about about things, but some things help me connect with Christmassy feelings of love and joy, and today I’m going to tell you about two of them.
Magical Christmas Stockings
My mother crocheted these magical Christmas stockings for my brother and me when we were small children. She made his first and mine a few years later. Having been crocheted at different times, they are not exactly the same. One is noticeably larger than the other, so they are not a “perfect” pair. That seems to bother my mother. “I guess my stitches changed size,” she said to me when I asked about how she had made them. She lamented that she’d never been that good at crochet, comparing her own skills to those of other women in her family, who had been able to produce remarkably delicate doilies and whatnot.
She’s not giving herself or the stockings enough credit. I doubt there’s ever been such a thing as a magical doily. Meanwhile, the magic of these Christmas stockings is still going strong decades later. I actually feel a little guilty for having taken my brother’s stocking to pass along to one of my children. I asked my mom if she thought that was unfair, and she replied, “Well, you asked for it and he didn’t.” It pays to ask for the things that we want!
You might wonder what, aside from nostalgia, makes these stockings magical. Their greatest magical power is their stretchiness. These stockings can accommodate any number of gifts in all sorts of shapes. They can be filled until they’re huge and misshapen, and when emptied they shrink down to their normal size and shape as if nothing had ever happened to them. If you’ve ever read Jan Brett’s The Mitten, a story from Ukrainian folklore about a lost mitten that becomes home to assorted woodland animals, it’s a lot like that. I’ve never tried squeezing a bear into either stocking, because I hardly have time during the holidays for bear wrestling, but I wouldn’t be surprised if I could.
The stockings bring so much joy on Christmas morning. I remember how, when we were children, my brother and I would creep out of our rooms Christmas morning. It was still dark outside, and chilly, and the house was silent but for the peculiar noises that only come out at night. It might have been scary if it weren’t for the light of the Christmas tree to draw us through the darkness. Our stockings were laid out in front of the fireplace. We always spent what felt like hours looking through and playing with our new treasures. This was part of the magic of Christmas, and we believed in it so completely. It was not only Santa’s gift to us, but also to our parents. Without the stocking stuffers to keep us busy, we would have woken our parents up even earlier.
Now Santa fills the stockings for my children, who are forming their own magical Christmas memories. My parents visit us for the holiday, so my mother is here to see the stockings filled. She is still amazed at how they stretch to whatever shape and size is needed. We bond over it, which is also a kind of magic.
And that’s why these Christmas stockings are two of My Favorite Things.
