The Joys of 2020

I don't always write about the year's end on New Year's Eve. Sometimes I write about a Christmas carol or getting more sleep or any number of other topics. 

But 2020 deserves a sendoff post. A sendoff that includes "good riddance," of course, given what a difficult and tragic year it has been for so many. But because it's a year that has been joyous for my family, a post of gratitude and amazement, too. 

So here's to our Seattle crew settling into new work and study and apartment, exploring the city right outside their door. And here's to Bernadette with her amazing smile and huggable little body. And here's to Isaiah, who beams with pleasure and shrieks with joy. 

As much as I would like to kick 2020 out the door, I can't help but linger for a moment at all the wonder it brought us. That said, though, come on 2021. We need your sanity. We need your hope.  

(Photo: Claire Capehart)

Reading for Pleasure

For some reason that I can't quite fathom, my parents gave me The Return of the Native by Thomas Hardy when I was about 14 years old. It was a  strange choice for a kid, but it turned out to be a good one for me. I soon discovered a taste for Wessex folk, and for the moors and dales Hardy described so beautifully in his tales. 

Of course, Thomas Hardy novels aren't always a barrel of laughs, and they probably made a quietly dramatic teenager even more so. But the affinity remained, and now the idea of settling down with The Mayor of Casterbridge or Tess of the D'Urbervilles is almost akin to picking up a book of fairy tales, so closely do I associate them with my youth, when reading was pure pleasure.

I'm recapturing a bit of that pure-pleasure reading this week, dipping into my new holiday books. It's a feeling Hardy would agree with. "No one can read with profit," he said, "that which he cannot read with pleasure."

Walk Not Taken

A mild winter afternoon, a little more time than usual, a desire to walk somewhere new. Enter Oxon Road. I took it almost by accident, though, in an attempt to avoid the utility workers who were trimming trees on the other side of West Ox Road. So thorough are the strings that bind us to our routine that I would probably have just continued down to Bennett Road, as I usually do, had my usual way not been blocked, in which case Oxon Road would have continued to be a walk not taken. 

But I did cross the road and trot down Oxon — and my world was enlarged by it. First, West Ox is at its pinnacle there, so you can spot the faint gray line of the Blue Ridge from that vantage point. I wasn't expecting that — and seeing the mountains was a thrill.

Then there is a most fetching ivy-covered fence on the north side of the road. To walk beside it is to feel you are on the wrong side of a secret garden, that if you but knew which panel to push you could part that curtain of green and enter an enchanted place where flowers bloom yearlong.

I did not enter that garden, but I did imagine it. The wall of ivy gave it to me. That, and the walk not taken.

Cake for Breakfast

This is a rare week off for me, an experiment in laziness. Should I write this post first thing in the morning?  No, I should read more about Eleanor Roosevelt from the new biography Eleanor, a Christmas gift, one of several fabulous books I received that I can't wait to peruse.

Then I should have a piece of cake for breakfast, the amount of sweets in the house being so prodigious that I'm reduced to eating them throughout the day. It's Red Velvet Cake, though more like Purple Velvet due to the fact that I didn't have two ounces of red food coloring when I made it, and it's tad dry since I once again forgot to use the timer.

Then I should take a walk, a longer one than usual (see above, re. cake) — but, of course, I must wait for the cake to settle, which means ... this is the perfect time to write a post.

Wrapping Station

Christmas Day came and went in a blur of gifts, wrapping paper and much-loved faces, some of them on a screen this year.  But the blurring is what we can expect of the day. It is, after all, only 24 hours long, and you must sleep for at least a few of them. 

One of my pet peeves this time of year, though, is the precipitous end to the huge holiday build-up, which often comes to a screeching halt on December 26. 

In my own small way, I try to fight this tendency by stretching Christmas out at least until New Year's Day (and this year, due to cleverly spaced weekends, through January 3) or even to the Feast of the Epiphany, January 6. 

And to that end, herewith another holiday post. This one is just to note that this year, rather than wrapping gifts upstairs, leaning over a bed (which was how Mom did it, and usually between the hours of 5 p.m. and midnight on Christmas Eve), I used the dining room table, which since the arrival of the 'new" couch in May 2019 has been pushed in front of the fireplace. 

I wrapped gifts to the tune of the classical carols played on the radio and in full view of the tree. I hope I can use this new wrapping station next year, too. But next year, I hope the Zoom faces are once again home for the holidays.

Merry Christmas!

It's been a year like no other, a year of unique trials, and yet somehow, miraculously, we've come back to this point, which is for me, and for many, the great pause. Christmas Day. Soon to be followed by New Year's Day and the delicious week in between. Once again I'll re-run this blog post, one I wrote nine years ago. Merry Christmas!

12/24/11

Our old house has seen better days. The siding is dented, the walkway is cracked, the yard is muddy and tracked with Copper's paw prints. Inside is one of the fullest and most aromatic trees we've ever chopped down. Cards line the mantel, the fridge is so full it takes ten minutes to find the cream cheese. Which is to say we are as ready as we will ever be. The family is gathering. I need to make one more trip to the grocery store.

This morning I thought about a scene from one of my favorite Christmas movies, one I hope we'll have time to watch in the next few days. In "It's a Wonderful Life," Jimmy Stewart has just learned he faces bank fraud and prison, and as he comes home beside himself with worry, he grabs the knob of the banister in his old house — and it comes off in his hand. He is exasperated at this; it seems to represent his failures and shortcomings.

By the end of the movie, after he's been visited by an angel, after his family and friends have rallied around him in an unprecedented way, after he's had a chance to see what the world would have been like without him — he grabs the banister knob again. And once again, it comes off in his hand. But this time, he kisses it. The house is still cold and drafty and in need of repair. But it has been sanctified by friendship and love and solidarity.

Christmas doesn't take away our problems. But it counters them with joy. It reminds us to appreciate the humble, familiar things that surround us every day, and to draw strength from the people we love. And surely there is a bit of the miraculous in that.

Naked Driveway

It seldom happens around here — in fact, I can't quite remember another time when it has — so I had to snap a photo. The event: an empty driveway without an empty house. 

With one car in the shop, another on indefinite loan and the third (wonder of wonders!) actually parked n the garage ... it stands to reason that the driveway would be empty. 

And yet, an empty driveway is terra incognita. What is this vast expanse, warped and worn? What is this house devoid of parked vehicles? 

Most of all, what is this emptiness as I back out of the garage on my way to an appointment? I paused, as I always do, calibrating how much I'd have to swerve to avoid the car that's always parked west of the dogwood. But that car wasn't there. My way was clear. It was a naked driveway. 

Zoom Memorial

Over the weekend a friend and neighbor was memorialized over Zoom. My initial skepticism at this 2020 version of a final send-off melted away in the first few moments when a devoted son — one of five — opened the call, his voice slightly husky from the task at hand. 

There were photo montages of his father as a young man, a proud dad, a world traveler, a loving husband. Each son spoke in his own way, one from his father's garage. And though each had a different mode of expression, in the end, the portrait became clear. 

Here was a family grieving but also celebrating a life well-lived. Here was as much life and music as could be crammed into 60 minutes of screen time. And in a strange way, the screen amplified the presence, made it at once more intimate and expansive. 

I imagine Zoom memorial services are as many and varied as the people they honor. The fact that this one was so touching may have nothing to do with Zoom and everything to do with the man himself. But I'm not ruling out the nature of the event, the fact it came into our living rooms and kitchens, where, without diluting the enormity of the loss, it softened and transformed the sadness. 

Solstice Miracle!

This morning while meditating we were urged to think of our body as a receptacle for a warm, golden, spacious light. Let this light flow from above the head down into each toe, intoned the narrator, let it flow up the legs to the knees, filling the stomach, the chest, the throat, the head and, from there, each finger and through the arms up to the shoulders. 

I'm still a beginner at all of this. I try to visualize this light, which looks a little like melted butterscotch. I try to think of my body as a receptacle, which means thinking of it as empty. 

A funny notion, this, to think of oneself as empty rather than full. It dawned on me today that the very notion of emptiness is in itself liberating. That means that all of the worries and to-do lists clogging up my brain are actually not there after all. 

It's a Solstice miracle!  

Writing Cards: 2020

It's been a busy weekend so far, full of baking, shopping, wrapping ... and writing cards. I started penning these on Friday night, which spilled over to yesterday and today, too. The reason: I'm writing more on each card. 

I was pondering this yesterday, as I scribbled messages on the back of each photo greeting (which is a vertical card this year), telling myself that if I kept up this pace I would never finish. 

But it makes sense: It's been a long hard year, a year of isolation from friends and family. So of course, writing notes to friends and family should take precedence over any notion of timeliness! 

Luckily, this philosophy suits the general pace of mail delivery, which is just north of glacial. And who cares about that, either? 

The cards will all arrive, eventually. The last-minute packages will, too. 

White Stuff

I just peaked at the weather forecast to see what Christmas might have in store and learned that snow showers are predicted for the morning of the 25th. While I doubt this will hold up, we've had more snow on the ground this week than in the last two years, 

This morning I awoke to a coating of fresh flakes on yesterday's hardened ice crust. There's just enough of the white stuff to flock the holly and dust the deck. And since it's only 28 degrees outside right now, it might last.

It will be a strange Christmas; that much we know. But wouldn't it be nice if it was a white one, too?

(I took this photo during Snowmaggedon ... not today!)

Door-to-Door

The boxes come in and the boxes go out. In this very different holiday season, I never know what I'll find when I open the door. A large box or a small envelope. A package that arrives seemingly in the middle of the night — another that arrives during a snow and sleet storm. A box of oranges or a carton of long-awaited gifts — ones I'm giving others that still have to be mailed to distant destinations.

News reports tell of an overwhelmed post office. And no wonder! I feel like they might be overwhelmed just with our stuff alone. 

I'm not a comfortable online shopper. I'd rather see and touch the items I buy before making the purchase. But these days we have little choice. Even before the pandemic, brick-and-mortar stores had begun to limit their selections, to offer to order things for you from their store. 

It's a more distant and less friendly world we inhabit now, to be sure. I'm hoping that the boxes I send release the warmth I feel when packing them. 

The Ninth

I hadn't heard it in a while, and I caught only fragments on my drive to and from the post office last week. But there it was, the syncopated rhythm of the second movement on the way there and, on the way back, the first strains of the fourth movement.

Today is the 250th anniversary of Beethoven's birth, and he will be well-represented on the radio —just as he would have been thundering through the concert halls, if those were open. If I'm lucky, I'll find a way to hear his Ninth Symphony today, too.

But I doubt it will compare with last week's performance. After arriving home, I rushed out for a walk, headphones in, classical station blaring, so that I could move through space as that sublime music moved through my brain. 

There was the first "Freude!" "Joy!" The soloists' voices entwined and melodious, the pulsing timpani and the chorus filling my head with sound. And in that way, the ordinary walk became a celebration of life.

Light-Seeking

 

I feel like a winter plant, straining to soak up all the rays I can. I find the sunniest corner of the house, an upstairs bedroom perfectly positioned for the low winter star, and sit right where the rays hit the wall, propping myself up with pillows.

And speaking of plants, I've brought two of them up to this second-floor room. Like me they are leaning outward, just shy of contorting themselves, to soak up as much of the good stuff as possible. 

At nighttime, this room is illuminated, too. Turns out, the most brightly decorated cluster of houses in the neighborhood is best seen from this vantage point.  

To be here in the daytime is to be warmed; to be here after dark is to be comforted. 

Rejoice!

Yesterday was Gaudete Sunday, the third Sunday of Advent, when the message shifts from one of "beware and prepare" to "rejoice and prepare." 

I love both Advent messages. For that matter, I love Advent. It's a season of anticipation — and isn't anticipating an event usually always better than the event itself? 

More than two decades ago, I happened to read Kathleen Norris's book The Cloister Walk during Advent. It was a busy time for me as a writer and a parent, and when I'd collapse in bed each night I'd savor a chapter or two of this fine volume and be transported into the silence of the cloister.

The image I have of Advent is one of cold stone and plainsong, of middle-of-the-night awakenings for prayer and devotion. Though Norris spent time in a monastery in Minnesota, it was the old churches of Europe that came to mind as I visualized her progress through the liturgical year. The long centuries of hope condensed into an annual calendar. 

By the reckonings of that calendar, we have already begun a new year. 

The Mirror and the Light

I just finished reading The Mirror and the Light, the 750-page conclusion of Hilary Mantel's brilliant three-part reimagining of the life of Thomas Cromwell, Lord Privy Seal of England and Henry VIII's right-hand man ... until he wasn't. 

In the final pages, Cromwell prepares for his execution. He ponders heaven and hell, thinks often of his father, Walter, a blacksmith and a drunk who beat his son and propelled him out from Putney into a life he could not have imagined from his beginnings, a life of service and, more than most, of influencing history. 

Still, when Cromwell confronts his end, he shudders and he trembles, he sees ghosts. He also realizes that life will go on without him, as it will, of course, for us all:

It occurs to him that when he is dead, other people will be getting on with their day; it will be dinner time or nearly, there will be a bubbling of pottages, the clatter of ladles, the swift scoop of meat from spit to platter; a thousand dogs will stir from sleep and wag their tails, napkins will be unfurled and twitched over the shoulder, fingers will be dipped in rosewater, bread broken. And when the crumbs are swept away, the pewter piled for scouring, his body will be broken meat, and the executioner will clean the blade.

The Birds

It sounded like spring when I walked outside the other day. The robins had swooped in, and they were filling the skies with their song. Out back, the feeder is clogged with sparrows and chickadees and bluebirds and cardinals. The bluejays are there, too. 

The suet block brings in the clinging birds: the downy woodpecker and its larger cousin (whose name I will have to look up, ah, the red-headed woodpecker, that's who it is, see above) and, biggest of all, the pileated, with its look of the primeval and its distinctive red crest.

Now that I work indoors, I stay as close to the deck as possible, and with the bird feeder moved to where I can see it, my days are punctuated more than they should be by staring at these beautiful creatures.

Out there, a pandemic rages. But in the backyard, it's just the eternal struggle to keep body and soul (in this case, tiny feathered soul) together.  

Singalong at Home

This is the time of year when amateur singers around the world gather in church sanctuaries and basements to belt out "For Unto Us a Child is Born," "His Yoke is Easy" and other choruses from Handel's "Messiah." 

This year, you can probably find some Zoom version, but that won't do the trick, not with this piece of music. Beyond the loss of life and livelihood, which is of course what we mourn the most, one of the pandemic's other great casualties is how it has banished group singing.

Singing aloud is one of life's great joys, and doing it with others a great joy heightened. But that pleasure has been denied us since early last spring, when we learned that singing spreads the virus more efficiently than almost anything else. 

There are many ironies here, including this one: that an activity that helps us banish our troubles is not here for us when we need it most. 

I don't know about other once-a-year choristers, but this one will be singing the Hallelujah Chorus aloud anyway. It will be in my house, the stereo cranked up high.  It will be fervent and spine-tingling. But I will be doing it ... alone.  

Focus

In the Headspace journey I'm taking courtesy of a program at work, we just finished a 30-day course on finding focus. We learned that focus in not something you must learn and strive for; it's something you already have. 

Finding focus means attending to the moment, losing yourself in the here and now. It's like an image used at the beginning of the Headspace program, one of blue sky and clouds. Blue sky is always there, but clouds hide it, just as the stresses of daily living block the natural calm that can be ours if we learn to still ourselves. 

This morning we take another, more advanced course on mindfulness. I'm grateful for these opportunities — because there's never been a better time to master the art of living in the here and now. 

A Paco

A week into December the house gradually assumes a Christmas character. The tree that was biding its time in a bucket is now gracing the far corner of the living room. The piano has its nutcrackers, the Beethoven bust its Santa hat. The jolly cloth wreath is tacked up in the kitchen and silver snowflakes hang from the chandelier. 

But the tree has no ornaments, the banister no greenery and no cards yet grace the mantel. Maybe they will all be as late as mine this year — mine which I just go around to ordering. 

There's a term I remember from my musical days: "a paco." It means a little or gradually. It means we're not going to thunder into the next passage but tiptoe into it gingerly.

That's the way I feel about Christmas this year. The holiday will be so different, with family members unable to travel here. So best to approach it with caution, to lure it like a shy young bird. Little by little. 

Vienna Waits For You

Yesterday, for the first time since March 12, I drove to the Vienna Metro Station. Though assured that the money I'd had taken from my paycheck would remain on the flex account charge card past year's end, I wasn't going to test it out. I needed the funds from the credit card to be on the Metro card — and drove there to make the transfer.

It was my first trip to Vienna Metro in nine months, and I relished the old twists and turns of the drive there: Fox Mill to Vale to Hunter Mill to Chain Bridge to Old Courthouse to Sutton and on to the station. 

The lighting was all wrong, of course. I usually did this leg of the commute in darkness or early morning shadows. And the traffic was much lighter, as it is most everywhere most all of the time.

But once there, it was not at all like the Vienna Metro Station I know.  I found myself improbably alone, like the survivor of a nuclear apocalypse. There were no cabs idling, no buskers singing, no harried commuters rushing to and fro. The place was as lonesome as a schoolyard in summer.

Here was a place I knew like the back of my hand. Here was a round-trip I took most work days in my former life. It was a place and a practice that changed abruptly last spring. And I doubt it will ever be the same. 

Tick Tock Tick...

I write to the sound of one clock ticking. That would be a lot of ticks in some houses, but in this house, it means we’re down by two clocks. It’s the cuckoo clock this time, the cuckoo I mourned in an essay long ago.

A year ago, when I was home alone for a couple weeks, I remember writing in my journal about the sound of three clocks ticking. It was like jumping rope double-Dutch or playing all three contrapuntal parts of a Bach fugue, the satisfying finger-twisting struggle of it all. 

It isn’t difficult to vibrate to one chord, to rock to one beat. I like to think that having multiple ticks and tocks keeps me limber, aurally speaking.

Time for the cuckoo clock repair shop.

The Standout

It's a broad, bare expanse I see when I look out an upstairs window now. Tall, straight trunks sprouting tangles of limbs and branches — all  brown or gray or a shade yet unnamed that is their pairing( (bray?). 

If it's a sunny day, add a splash of blue for the sky. If it's not, then a lighter shade of gray for the firmament.

The eye, in this case, is drawn to the standouts, the few trees yet to lose their leaves. There's only one of those left in the backyard — a shrub of some indeterminate breed. But what a thrill it is to spy its rich crimson. 

"Here I am," it seems to shout. "All is not lost." 

Getting the Tree: 2020

I worried it wouldn't be the same this year. No girls along, for the first time in decades. And, more to the point, no Snickers Gap. The little cut-your-own place discovered in the early aughts and now a juggernaut of traffic jams and parking woes.

So instead, it was the tree lot on the corner. Ah, but what a lot and what a corner. The latter an old crossroads with a picturesque white church on a hill. And by going after dark, there was magic at work: piped-in carols, icicle lights in the trees, happy volunteers slapping their mittened hands together to stay warm. 

We found a tree within a few minutes, an aromatic Douglas fir — probably the earliest Christmas tree we've ever purchased — and got it home and into a bucket, where it now sits drinking happily. 

Like so much else this year, it's closer to home, stripped down ... but memorable just the same.

A Rose in December

One of the joys and hassles of a long-lived blog like this one is that I sometimes repeat myself. I feel relatively certain I've written of "Roses in December" (ah yes, there it is!), so I must find a new title for this one. How about "A Rose in December." (The change is duly made.)

Having settled on a title now, then what about the meaning. I'm happy to announce that it's a straightforward one today — the joy of seeing this bloom so late in the season, of feeling that it's a slap in the face to subfreezing overnights and brisk western breezes. 

And yes, it brings back the long ago memory of a walled garden and its promise of warmth. But it is also a joy in and of itself. 

This year's rose, no doubt fueled by a wet spring and moderate summer, has supplied me with blossoms from May to December. I've taken a rose to my just-born granddaughter and her mother in late October and could have given one to my November 30th-birthday daughter, had I the ability to ship it across the country. But that, alas, is beyond my power. 

One thing I know about these roses is how delicate they are, how fragile to the touch. They, like so much else in life, are better off the less they are disturbed. 

NaWriMo's End?

Two years ago, I wrote a novel during National Novel Writing Month. It was an intense experience, in part because I only decided to do it on November 2 so was playing catch-up from the start, and in part because it was a stressful time in my life otherwise. But it was a valuable discipline as disciplines go, so this year I decided to modify it. 

Instead of celebrating National Novel Writing Month (affectionately known as NaNoWriMo), I celebrated National Writing Month, which is an observance of my own concoction, a time when my own writing comes fist because I wake up two hours earlier to do it.

Practicing this for 30 days convinces me (as it has in the past when I've made similar efforts), that it's the writing that matters. Doing it first and doing it often starts my days off in the way they should begin. Like composing the proper outline for the high school theme, the dedicated writing time becomes the frame on which I hang my day. 

Today is December 1. NaWriMo is over. I could stop rising early, sitting in the dark living room with these keys beneath my fingers, letting them take me places I hadn't thought to go.

Or then again, I might keep right on doing it. NaWriMo is over. My writing ... is not.