Fresh Christmas

I've spent the last month or more capturing Christmas--to try to feel once more what I felt as a child, and to help my kids, now almost all grown, capture it as well. But this Christmas morning, I find I have a new perspective. Despite what I've just been doing, I now realize that it's not about trying to relive Christmas past, as if those few fleeting years of my childhood or my kids' childhoods were the epitome of what Christmas should be.

This is the last year I'll do that. From this morning on, what I want to do is let each Christmas season unfold its own unique treasures. We can't always have everyone here. We can't always do exactly what we did that one year when it was perfect for me or some other person. But we can live in the now and treasure what's happening this day.


Of course we'll probably still have our traditional foods: grasshopper pie on Christmas Eve. Cinnamon rolls on Christmas morning. (Why we use this occasion to slam ourselves with sugar, I have yet to define, and truthfully don't want to, because we literally only make these things once a year. Some things you just have to hold on to)!

But with the possible exception of food, I don't want to be looking backwards at Christmas except to reminisce. I want each December 25th from here on out--and I figure I've got at least 35 more to go--to be uncharted territory, as in reality, each new day is never and can never be a repeat of the one before it.

I want to add to my memory bank a newly-minted, one-off Christmas, vintage 2015, instead of trying to relive but never quite recapturing the magic of some other time time. Next year, besides God, who really knows how it will be? Who knows who will be here. Who knows what the weather will be, the dynamics, the tree.

We'll have to discover what unfolds. That's what we're doing today, and rather than feeling like it is less than other years because not everyone is here or no small child is present to add wonder, this Christmas is perfect because it is fresh and new and unexplored.

Let the celebration begin! 


Once everyone else gets up, of course. Me? I'm on my second cup of coffee :-)

Capturing Christmas

Christmas is almost upon us, but I feel as if I'm running after it, trying to capture its essence as if it were an elusive snowflake caught on a current of wind. So I play carols on spotify. I stare at the lights on our Christmas tree, and I ponder how to "feel" Christmas-y

  And I also wonder:

Where has Christmas magic      gone?

Did I leave it in the land of childhood where

We breathed the rare air

Of bigger-than-life hopes and dreams

All hanging on the happenings

Of one December night

When sleigh bells 

And angel songs 

Shimmered the air 

Like silvering of the veil between seen and not seen?

When did sleepless eves of Christmas past

Bright lights and starry eyes

Give way to growing up?

And when did suspension of belief 

Meld slowly into a surer and less sweet knowledge that magic,

Christmas magic,

Is fragile?

I don't have those answers,

But I do know this:

Christmas magic may be fragile 

And yet it endures

Preserved by the strong belief of children

And the strong love of adults who hold the stage curtains as backdrop

For a generation who in their turn will grow up and light the lights, 

Play the music,

Tell the Birthday story,

And keep Christmas magic shimmering

And alive for one more year.

On Behalf of a Grateful Nation

The closing strains of the national anthem drown in the roar of the U.S. Air Force jet as it buzzes low over the line of veterans in their vintage cars. World War II. The Korean War. Vietnam. The Gulf War. POWs. Iraq, Afghanistan, and more. They're all represented here on the street of small town Shasta Lake where babies, teens, parents, and grandparents line the streets under the cool northern California sun. No one cringes at the thunder of the fly by. No one fears. And that in itself is tribute to the veterans we honor. They've won and preserved our safety. They defend us. They are the "good guys."

“What a great country we live in,” says a random man who strolls out to a convertible to shake the hand of CA senator Ted Gaines, “when a military jet flies by to commemorate a parade," and the Senator, just one of us, agrees and calls attention to the blue sky and the beautiful day. There's honor in the air.

Yes, it's tangible, the honor for these veterans and the ones they represent who have served and are serving in our great nation's military. With tears in my eyes and a lump in my throat, I watch the cars pass, waving my flag and feeling so thankful. One old vehicle passes carrying a veteran of 35 missions on a B24 in World War II. He rides quiet and silver haired, looking like someone's grandpa dressed in military uniform: but there was a day--many days, when he was a young man in the belly or the pilot seat of a bomber, not sure he would make it back to friendly soil. Doing something he wished he didn't have to do, but proud on the behalf of a nation that depended on him and all those like him to hold onto freedom with their bare hands.

I see another WWII veteran--James Broack, 102 years old, with as brave a heart as ever beat, even though he rides quietly in the parade. Yes, the bravery is palpable today. I'm feeling the weight of it. Heritage and history strung out in front of me, and the weight of generations represented here. That's another thing that strikes me. Kids and grand kids ride police launches, Swiss ammo carts and firetrucks; middle school to high school marching bands blazoning out She's a Grand old Flag and Salute to the Armed Forces. Two-year-old baton twirlers; a tiny BMX rider with a pink helmet and maybe three years to her credit join soldiers, sailors, and special forces. These are the ones those military personnel held in their hearts in the jungles and deserts of their campaigns. And these are their reward.

My dad, a machinist's mate on a destroyer in the Korean War could have been in this parade, and how he would have enjoyed the quiet company of his fellow sailors. I want to run out and hug the valiant men and women I see passing before me, and I hope they know that all across the country in thousands of parades small and great, grateful people gather to say thank you and to give honor. 

Thank you veterans old and young, active or retired. It’s because of you and your fellow soldiers we sit safely by the sidelines in a little California town. May we who now run carry the baton in a worthy way, worthy of those who did and still do their best on our behalf, and remind those children twirling batons or playing the drums what it costs to be this safe and this free.

Happy Veteran's Day. And on behalf of a grateful nation, thank you!

Grit isn't just Something you put in the Bottom of your Birdcage

I'm pondering perseverance right now. This is partly because I need some, and partly because as I take a closer look at it, this particular commodity has all the earmarks of the legendary "silver bullet"--the one element that can move us toward success, toward our dreams, toward deeper connections in relationship. That's the amazing good news. The not so amazing news is that perseverance is not easy.
Not usually pain-free. And very rarely fast.

What good is a slow silver bullet, for heaven's sake?! Not much, if you want what you want and you want it now. (That would be me a lot of times). But it strikes me that hoping for that magic "suddenly" is not good policy for a couple of reasons. For one, if you don't know how you got somewhere, you won't know how to sustain that position. Think about it: if you "fall" in love, will you know how to stay in love year 5? 15? 25?

For another, human nature seems to assign less value to what we have not worked for. Whether it's a college education or a hamburger, if you have it handed to you on the proverbial silver platter, you may leave it half uneaten because you're unaware that someone, somewhere spent part of their life to put it in your hand.

And that leads me to this thought: in reality, there are very few "suddenlies." Whether it's parenting, personal achievement, or pretty much any other realm, a "suddenly" is but the culmination of a whole lot of time and effort and not giving up. You keep doing that long enough and "suddenly" the cup is full. The degree is in your hand. The relationship is solid and healthy.

Grit isn't just something you put in the bottom of your birdcage. It's that never give up stick-to-it-iveness that we reach for when all we really want to do is call it a day. Yup, I'm thinking that perseverance is worth the price, the closest thing to a silver bullet out there, and ammunition well worth carrying...

Super-extraordinary Heroes

I saw a hero in action this morning. While on my run to drop my teens at 0 period (that unearthly hour before buses run and thus the period to which many parents must drive their students), a car pulled to the curb by the high school's flagpole. From the driver's seat a high schooler emerged, and a father exited the passenger side. The first waved goodbye and headed onto campus. The latter waved, walked quietly around the car, got into the driver's seat, and drove away. No fanfare. No "hey-look-at-you-rockin'-fatherhood" cheers from the sidewalk. Just a quiet departure like many other mornings. But it touched my heart because that father and a whole unnamed multitude of parents do these and uncounted thousands of heroic acts every day.

They seek to empower their kids, to help them rise beyond what their parents have achieved.

Parents really are extra-ordinary heroes. Whether they're still in the young stages--nighttime feedings, toddler meltdowns, food battles, everyday routines; in the middle years of elementary challenges,science projects and soccer seasons; to the last few years where parenting burgeoning adults is a delicate mixture of holding on and letting go--the sheer amount of love and nurture and flat-out endurance that millions of parents around the word exhibit is nothing short of amazing.


CEOs get award banquets. Sports heroes rake in money and kudos. But here in the trenches of parenthood, acknowledgments are delayed--often only in retrospect do those same kids look at us and see actual people--people who love and dream and sacrifice on their behalf. But that's okay because we're extra-ordinary heroes. Our reward is not so much that they would look us in the eyes and say, "You're an amazing parent," (though that is definitely music to our ears), but that they become who they were meant to be, climb the mountains that are theirs, and plant their flags at the summits. That is our reward. That is our mission. That is our joy.

We Are the Ocean

I

We are the ocean, you and I.

The accumulated courage and gifts and incredible riches that lie within each of us overwhelm the sand in sheer weight and glory. Strange how we rarely understand this, how we can journey through our lives wondering--fearing--that we are not enough.

There's so many people in the world--sometimes I think about how each person, each dwelling has a whole life all its own--mothers, fathers, siblings, children, cousins--like waves going out and out and out. All across the country and the world, each life is lived in full color, Tragedies. Triumphs.
Precocious toddlers. Talented teens. Aging parents. It boggles my mind to ponder the multiplied millions of ripples going out from every person, but God knows us each one.

I love that.

He knows each individual "us" as if we were the only one He ever created. That intimately. He not only knows the names and the number of stars in the sky, or the sand on all the seashores, He knows the number of hairs on each of our heads. We are not "the masses" to him. We are known. Valued. Loved. He is not overwhelmed by the ocean of humanity that lives and breathes and calls out to Him in need and in love and in etremities often. No, not overwhelmed. Quite the contrary:

He is delighted with us!

Ponderings on Summer's End

Poor neglected blog. 
You're just not keeping up with the times. But then, it's really not your fault that the summer has flown by with express train speed, blurring the flowers by the wayside. It's August, and you're still back in May.

But that's okay. Sometimes life is like that. Still I'd say it's time, now, to take what is left of these last couple of weeks, grasp time firmly by the hand or throat or whatever you can manage to get hold of, and slow. It. Down.

Breathe deep.  Notice the sky.
Make actual appointments to spend time with priority people (because
you know it rarely just "happens").
Do the necessary chores. Only the necessary ones. Then take the time gleaned from non-essentials and use them to restore your soul.

Ponder cloud pictures.
Stand under the trees and look up.
Sip excellent coffee. Nibble just a bit of chocolate.
And live. Really, intentionally experience these last summer days.
Yes, it's hot. But there's something soothing about breathing pre-warmed air. As if God has been there first.

Yes, there are a multitude of things all clamoring to be done. But separate them. Put the essentials in one pile and turn away from the rest. Then with careful, quiet fingers, sort gently through until all those treasured things large and small find their place in life. Slow that train down until individual flowers stand out in clarity, and when the moon comes up and the stars come out, you notice. Then go to sleep content with how you have wooed and wrestled time into something well-spent and rewarding.

So many beautiful things. Beautiful people. Beautiful truths.
We are closing in on the ending of summer, but I will not say there is so little time.
I will reorder time so that it stretches like the extension of eternity it really is.

Of Blogs and Beginnings and other misc. Stuff

I'm pondering this blog--its beginnings way back in 2011. Originally, I began it as a way to chronicle my journey with Honor, my Quarter Horse-Arab gelding, as I sought to transform him from a snarky
and disrespectful rascal into a trail horse I'd feel safe and happy to ride. That, and to have a place share various musings and happenings. [See Musings, Horse Happenings, and Other Odds and Ends of Life]

That feels like a lifetime ago, in a way. A different life. The big Victorian house and 20-something acres with a milk cow, horses, chickens and the works exists now in memory and pictures, not in real-time. At least not for us. I loved the years we spent there--our family growing up. The green, green land, the rolling hills, the big gracious rooms and wrap around porches. It was magical. Perfect. I thought I'd be there the rest of my life. Host grandkids and holidays, and maintain my battle to keep flowerbeds weed free, animals healthy, and that type of thing. 

Now here we are, having traded Missouri for Northern California in 2012, rolling hills for mountains and miles and miles of trails to ride. I'm loving the smaller house. Less land to take care of. Having three chickens instead of 30 and one horse. Honor has become the wonderful trail horse I hoped he would become, so in a way, one of my original objectives for this blog has changed. But I continue to muse, so it's a good thing my title was multi-purpose!

I'm loving this adventure of life, this unfolding of new things. Not quite sure what shape these will lend to this blog, but like all of life, every step of the journey is the journey. So on that somewhat vague note I pause. Some of my original objectives still remain valid--that the everyday-ness of life has a dignity often uncelebrated, and all the people who are not famous--of which I am one--live their lives with every bit as much dedication, intensity, and hope as the few we see in the headlines. People matter. Their lives matter. You matter!

Through Chicken Eyes

Meet our new ladies. They came to our house this week, and I'm pretty happy about that. I like chickens. They are not my favorite animal, nor do I find them as enjoyable as  cats or  horses, but I do like them. There's something about the way they meet the world with hopeful, satisfied clucking that lends a contented color to barnyard or backyard.

To me they epitomize the phrase, "Bloom where you are planted."  They scritch and scratch and search for bugs with the same concentrated effort whether they are in a small and already barren run (it doesn't take long for them to reduce their space to bare dirt) or ranging in the open where blades of grass and bugs have yet to be consumed.

I'm thinking that the world would be better off if we viewed it through chicken's eyes. Because it really is an amazing world, and it is our priviledge to be living and breathing and creating. So much to be thankful for, just on that level. I  know chickens have tiny brains, but I admire how they focus on what is at hand (or foot as the case may be!) and do not stress over all the things they don't have or don't know or are afraid of.

We could take a page from their proverbial notebook. Focus on what we do have, not on what we do not. Enjoy what our days hold, not spend them wishing for something yet to come or something that once was while effectively wasting the moments we have today.

I'm going to enjoy having chickens again. They will keep me mindful to look up at the blueness of the sky (or to revel in the rain). They will remind me where my focus needs to be--in the bounty and beauty around me.

I'm under no illusions, though. They will also remind me of why I haven't really missed keeping chickens--shutting them in for the night. Letting them out for the day. "Has anyone gathered the eggs yet?" (The answer always seems to be no.) Lining up someone to care for them while we're out of town.

Life has these complications, as we all know full well. But nonetheless, as I watch these biddies scratching in the dust and crooning to eachother in the warmth of the afternoon sun, I am reminded and challenged to see through their little chicken eyes and glimpse the treasures of the everyday.

Thanks, Laura, for sharing your girls :-)