Sign of the Dove

Telluride Daily Planet, Sunday, February 7, 2016

It’s the early 80s and it’s New York City, still a gritty place with large pockets of swank. I’m a single girl, a young woman who doesn’t hang out in bars much. I have very little money because I work in publishing, an industry notorious, especially back then, for a small modicum of glory and a large amount of low pay. I have tried on yet another brand new oxymoronic look – thrift-store preppy –and I’m still not sure about the Fair Isle sweater and penny loafers.  Not that it’s any more of a stretch than the baggy, bleached Mexi-ponchos I’ve renounced, from my So-Cal college years.

According to my Social Security profile, I make about $9500 per annum during the Bantam Books era and spend roughly $500 on my monthly rent, in an apartment I snag only because I have bribed (unsure how) the newspaper stand guy to give me the real estate section on a Saturday night before the front section of the Sunday paper comes in.

God, I love having an apartment of my own on the Upper East Side, though, even if the bathtub is in the kitchen and the toilet is down the hall. It’s perfection, being in, watching black and white movies on my little TV, hearing sirens, staring through the bars on the windows at the lights of the big city at night. Even getting rejections from the New Yorker…. It’s all so — New York. Anyway. The downside? I’m lonely. I have to force myself to go out and meet people: and how is that going to work?

How will it work when virtually everyone in New York is taken? Not only that, the couples, that are everywhere as far as the eye can see, are perfect couples. Look at them, walking arm in arm in Central Park as the maple leaves swirl and crunch underfoot. And sharing popcorn and Junior Mints at some foreign matinee. Look at them huddled under a single umbrella as they brave the wind to get to the Guggenheim where they will appreciate works of art and then duck out to have a late night snack. Look at them on ferries staring into the distance at the Statue of Liberty, and marching across the Brooklyn Bridge, and window shopping at Bergdorf’s at Christmastime.

What a delicious, dangerous, and easy seduction it is to romanticize everything, from the togetherness of couples to the loneliness of a single person: and I do!  Around Valentine’s Day, when the romanticizing comes to a head, I hole myself up and watch whatever the old movie channel feeds me, falling in, head first, stuffing the gullet of the monster of fantasy. How it should be. How it isn’t. That addictive combination of storyline and brainwashing and vulnerability and hope and constant comparison.

Years later, I give my disease a name, Sign of the Dove Syndrome, after the a restaurant in New York (closed in the late 90s, replaced by a high rise) that I pass and stare at longingly as I walk the 45 blocks home from work, a restaurant filled with elegant people all presumably behaving in better than average ways. In the spring, the gauzy curtains billow and blow out into the street at East 60th, affording glimpses of the enviable world inside. Men in yellow paisley ties. Women in belted dresses and pencil skirts.

What I don’t realize at the time… is a lot! For instance, I don’t realize that for every single man or woman desperately seeking companionship is a companion desperately seeking something more or seeking freedom. That virtually 100 percent of the time, I know nothing about the people I have imposed life stories on, that it has no bearing on any kind of truth except this truth: that I am fantasizing and making stuff up. Something I am quite good at.

Years and miles removed from New York and still in recovery from a life fueled to some degree by fairytales, and fantasies, rom-coms, and popular songs, I am finally beginning to really believe that the romance of life is for the taking – for anyone at all to take — whether we are happily or unhappily attached or happily or unhappily single or somewhere in between. That romance at its best is simply enjoying the great unfolding drama of life – with less longing for what we don’t have and more relishing of what we do.

(And sometimes we have chocolates to relish, it’s true. Whether you buy them yourselves or they’re bought for you.)


Trumping the candle

Telluride Daily Planet, Sunday, December 27, 2015

We have just lit a candle. An expensive, beautiful smelling, long-burning candle, the scent of which is neroli, I believe, (citrus aurantium — the flower of the bitter orange — a heady, citrusy, flowery scent still prized, as it was in ancient Egypt, for its calming, tranquilizing and mood-elevating effects). It is widely used in the perfume industry, and suspected to be one of the secret ingredients in the recipe for Coca-Cola.

We have not lit this candle as vigil or to make the house redolent of some evocative, mysterious, unnamable thing that leads one by the nose to blissful realms. It has not been lit to mark the presence of guests or the dinner hour or even as a late night treat for watching flame shadows flicker against a wall. In fact, we’re not even at home. We’re at work.

We’ve lit a candle quickly, with a specific purpose in mind and are having a good laugh about it now. This candle and matches have been dispatched to dispel bad energy, to clear the air, to burn away any residual negativity and to begin a new moment. Because what we’ve just had in our midst is an unfortunate person who does not have much control at all over her thoughts or her mouth and whose go-to expression is one of sourness, negativity and fault-finding. Meanwhile, in reality and right outside the door, soft fat snowflakes are falling all around, dotting peoples’ noses and eyelashes and accumulating in frosting-like layers, blanketing the town in a quiet and beautiful peace.

We are laughing for a couple of reasons. Because of the quick first aid we’ve applied to our space, the great and perfunctory speed of the sequence at which we’ve allowed a negative person to exit through a door and gone to fetch a good candle. We’re laughing because of the visible drama of marking the moment instead of internalizing it, which would involve taking on someone else’s miserable day, and taking it personally, a switch-up that is truly liberating.

And we’re also laughing because we’ve all been there before, in that discontented place, marching around like Pigpen from “Peanuts,” neck deep in a cloud of angry or resentful or fearful or lonely pheromones — inattentive to the world around us, thoroughly smitten by our own up-and-and-down-and-all-around stories, unaware or uncaring of their undeniable effects on other people.

The candle smells really good. In contrast to crisp, fresh mountain air, which is intoxicating and soul-reviving in its own way, the warmth and sweetness of the candle calms, helps us pause, accompanies us. Now, we are able to relax. Reboot. Let go of someone’s sharp, unwitting commentary.

Candles, which have been around for thousands of years, from the tiniest birthday candles to the tallest pillars, never disappoint. From insect wax and tallow, to oils, petroleums and more current permutations, we have lit our way through time, consoling and marking the moments as small flames burn bright. Now more than ever — in the advent of blue-screen glow and fluorescent light — we can benefit from the purity and light of fire, even in its most diminutive format.

Very shortly after we’ve applied micro-fire and scent to our space, another person walks through the door, this time a well-known personality with a couple of teenaged children and a husband in tow. They are an up group, a group whose vibe, charged with laughter and good cheer, with positivity and a sense of fun all around, changes everything and all at once.

We can feel it permeate not just the space but also our bones, our brains. It’s sweet and infectious and transformative. The children are polite. There is no sense of privilege or entitlement or urgency — none of that; and once they leave with their bags, the air in the shop expands, charged with good sparks, with pleasure, gratitude and generosity. It is now the prevailing climate, the power of which has trumped the candle by a long shot.

And we are the beneficiaries. It leaves us with a moment of real gratitude for the goodness of people who behave well. Who spread lightness of heart and joy. It gives us a moment to reflect on all of those who have told us (from Ralph Waldo Emerson and Norman Vincent Peale to Louise

Hay, Pema Chodron and many others) how important it is to tend to our emotional health, to take responsibility, to

examine the quality of our thoughts and emotions and to take care as we birth them in every moment.

What we learn, once again, this time from the cute candle-trumper family, is that good behavior is its own reward. It feels good and it makes others feel good. And what more could we possibly ask for as we attempt to make the very most of our limited time here on planet Earth?

Path of The Country Bunny

Telluride Daily Planet, Sunday, December 12, 2015

Dear Santa,

Here’s my Christmas list.

Actually, in preamble, I have to admit that I have been thinking about the Easter Bunny lately — more specifically, the one portrayed in my favorite book of all time, “The Country Bunny and the Little Gold Shoes.” Do you remember it? It’s 1939. DuBose Heyward and Marjorie Flack, truly inspired, write and illustrate this gem. It’s a classic. Timeless. Indelibly sweet and true.

In the story, a country bumpkin female bunny — a single parent, actually, with 21 babies to whom she has ingeniously delegated all the work of keeping house — decides to vie for a recently vacated Easter Bunny position, a post notoriously dominated by males, a post almost too ridiculous for her even to consider. Nevertheless, courageously, she shows up, 21 Sunday-best bunnies in tow.

The old and wise grandfather and head Easter Bunny in charge of the competition — noting the shiny-clean order of the country bunny’s life and witnessing proof positive of all her other attributes — sees fit to elect her, in the end, to be one of his own. And because of her brilliant examples of cleverness, kindness, wisdom and speed, she is given the greatest honor of all: donning the little gold shoes to fly an Easter basket to an ailing boy on the top of a steep mountain.

Fantastic story! Beyond the giant pyramids of colored eggs in the Easter Palace and the competition on the lawn with all the naysayer jackrabbits showing off (until the country bunny speaks up and proves her mettle), this is also an early feminist tale, a tale driven by merit and virtue, the reward of which is, simply and unequivocally, the gift of service.

Now, we know very well that in the Santa Claus merit system, a good little girl or boy gets the gifts, sometimes even the impossible ones — the puppy, the visit from a long lost relative (or famous athlete), the miracle cure, the trip to Disneyland. But what if all Santa offered and all we got was…  giving? What if the greatest gift to get was the gift of being capable to give to others? To me, this feels like radically elevated thought — which may be one reason “The Country Bunny” story continues to influence me to this day.

This year — a beautiful, rich, challenging, profound year for me, in so many ways — I’d like to begin needing not so many material things (which I am an expert at doing, just like most of us are), but needing things that are both harder and easier to grasp, the idea being to shake it up, grab a person by the collar, bring her or him back to the things that matter the most. In short, to get on the path of the Country Bunny.

Here’s the beginning of my new and improved list, which I’m writing as much to myself as to you. You don’t need the buzzwords, but I do, as they sort of tack notions to the bulletin board of time.

Smiley face: The ability to get up every day and put a smile on, even in the dark, even in the cold, even after one has temporarily given up coffee, which is pretty much one’s only vice. A deep feeling for the net worth of a smile.

Deer in headlights: The ability to be stopped in my tracks by the beauty of nature. Three of four times a day would be a good start, more on particularly sparkly days.

Queen of hearts: To be a better sport at word and card games. I have no idea why my buttons get pushed here, but I am currently on hiatus for bad behavior. This is a red flag item.

Inner child: better behavior from the unruly inner-tantrum-throwing 3-year old, the one who slams inner emotional doors and marches off in an inner micro-huff. Yellow flag item.

Peace sign: more peace in my daily life. File under: acceptance and enjoyment of people as they are, deep satisfaction in the small things and gratitude for bounty, privilege and the gift of life.

Cash register: clean, clear ideas of service to others with no tit-for-tat or sense of owing or balancing accounts. Just being nice.

Windex: clearer eyes with which to see the world. A Mr. Potato Head sort of feeling that the eyes we see with can be the angry eyes, but they can also be clear and peaceful eyes. Relaxing the eyeballs.

Wax: Of course, I love candles and would take any and all candles offered me at Christmas or any other day of the year. The beauty of a candle is that it reminds us that life is a vigil, that we are here to stay awake and give watchful attention to the progress of our lives. Right?

These things may help get me moving in the right direction. Thanks in advance for any help from the office of the red and white suit.

Yours sincerely, MCW.

Holiday meditation: the gumdrop chakra

Telluride Daily Planet, Sunday, November 29, 2015

(First published in 2012; back by request.)

Lie down on the floor —arms and legs out, like a gingerbread man.

Imagine you have two gumdrop eyes and a big, messy, icing mouth, the kind gingerbread “men” have. Now tell yourself you are neither man nor woman, you are a spice cake, clove and cardamom and ginger essence through and through. Feel yourself sort of… floating… that unique feeling of a cookie cooling on a marble slab. Soon you will harden completely, but guess what? Your stiffness is perfectly natural, which is one of the delightful things about being a cookie. Your paralysis is not paralysis at all.

Relax deep into the core of your hardening dough. Like glass, you are really neither liquid nor solid but an in-between state. Feel the deep brown of the molasses coursing through your boneless and fingerless cookie hands, your fat cookie legs and then your crown chakra, which is an invisible gumdrop of pale purple sparkly sugar-light coming from a sugar-star about 93 million miles from here.

Imagine that crown gumdrop glowing now and spinning on, like, a toothpick, receiving celestial light… and that this light is infusing you, filling every melded morsel of butter, sugar, flour and spice in your being. You breathe in: clove. You breathe out: clove. This is universal clove. Feel it deeply.

Now, relax your icing smile until it is a flat loop, like a rubber band lying on the counter. You don’t always have to be happy, you know. You can be neutral. Just because you were born with a smile painted on doesn’t mean you can’t be aware of your true feelings. Like how it feels to be used as a tree decoration and then thrown away. Or how it feels when someone who doesn’t like cardamom takes one bite and spits your leg out into a napkin. Or when people lump you in with fruit cake and snickerdoodles. Not that those things have necessarily happened to you, but certainly to many of your ginger-brethren. But what about the regular, everyday stuff, like just a few hours ago when you were thinking to yourself, “Wow, why do I feel so flat inside — is there something wrong with me?”

No, there is nothing wrong with you. There is nothing wrong with not trying so hard. With having some flatter days. It’s not easy being gingerbread, you know: having to be hard while staying somewhat soft inside — not just for others, but for yourself. Do you really want a roller coaster ride, wind pulling dangerously at the edges of your icing mouth?

Now ask yourself this trick question: “How can I smell clove if I don’t have a nose?” Do you feel your mind stretching as you enter the answer-less state? Now visualize your astral body getting up and walking, walking quietly through what appears to be a spearmint forest and toward what appears to be a gingerbread house, the old-fashioned kind, that has a pretzel gate that your astral fingers unlatch, feeling salt crystals come off in your palm. You stop for a moment, admiring the house, its piped-on architectural details. Then your hand-that-is-not-a-hand reaches for the doorknob and you enter. Tiptoeing on feet without toes.

Inside the house, it is dark except for a light in the kitchen. You feel like an outsider looking in, but you sense your quasi-flat body moving forward on its own, with yourself inside it. Is this duality? Are you observer or observed? Keep smelling the universal clove as you enter the cozy room. There are cookies in the oven, cookies just like you — do you see them? They look so much like you: are they you? They also look like paper dolls, laid out in rows, like clones.  All of a sudden, you are scared, really scared that this is “The Twilight Zone” again and that Rod Serling is going to walk through the side door and tell you it’s all a dream, that cookies don’t exist except in the mind of some giant sugar-and-spice-and-everything-nice eating universe.

Be with your fear, breathing in, breathing out, flat heart beating in your flat chest. You are completely safe here and you are real. Look at the cookies through the glass oven door and see them with your mind’s gumdrop eye, going back, as if rewinding a tape, coming out of the oven, going back into the cookie cutters, and then finally… back into the bowl, the bowl of primordial dough from whence all gingerbread emerges, where unity of all confections exists, before hardness and softness even have come into being.

Are you happy? Calm? Of course you are, little cookie, because all is one. Now get out there and radiate your sugar-light in this brand new day.

Rainbow medicine

Telluride Daily Planet, Sunday, November 15, 2015

What have we to be thankful for? A living world of color (for one thing). The saturated and rich, the pale, the faded, the textured, the intense, the suggestive, the translucent. Eyeballs of today, screenburned, jaded and atrophied by narrowing fields of vision, need the good, strong, sane medicine of color.

Me, I like violets, humble and sweet, with heart-shaped leaves and deep, delicate petals. They ask us to bend down and bring our faces low, and remind us, growing there next to trees, of small next to big and big next to small. And sugar violets on cakes, can we love these, too? We can. Just like we can love the sweetness of sour grape balls and C. Howard’s Violet Scented Gum in the purple package.

Violet lives in cabbage leaves, the stretched out skin of figs, orchid parts, the insides of bitten plums. A strip of bright violet sky fades with the setting sun. Here’s another one: Elizabeth Taylor, with her one-of-a-kind violet eyes, an actual anomaly to go with another anomaly, her double set of eyelashes. Violet, a bunny’s favorite color, is the color of kings’ robes, amethyst rings, and little-girl leggings. It is the color of bygone ink scribbling, “Darling, I miss you.” In violet we trust.

Indigo, mysterious, dense, and delicious, is the true color of the so-called blueberry. It is the color of new denim jeans being washed in hot water. The indigo milk cap, a plain-seeming mushroom, can stain paper and fingers this shade of blue-black. Exotic indigo is the raw stuff of Halloween masks and dyed feathers, and poison, perhaps. It is the color of midnight shadows, of things that groan and creak, and of the massive North American indigo snake that eats other snakes for dinner. Indigo, going and gone. In indigo we lurk.

Blue speaks to both the bright and glum — the umbrella of sky and sorrows drooping. Bluebirds, top testifiers of cheer, cross the airy way with wings flashing bits and pieces of elemental hue. Blue! I love your name. You are a broad color with many cousins, from evening snow and crisp men’s shirts to glistering mirror lakes and crackled robins’ eggs. It is our blue planet ever so slowly creating with crushing power the bluest of Kashmir sapphires. What wallpapers a corner of my heart, though, is that medieval-painting blue, the one next to the gold of halos, beams of glory and tiny fleurs-de-lis. That blue is lush. In blue we sink or swim, we fly, or settle in.

Beneath the warming skin of ripening fruit like oranges and mangos is the high potentate of color – green — the color of life, ever ready. Green is Go, and Live, and Surge, and Conserve and Rejuvenate in shades of pine and olive, kelly, pistachio, lime, basil and stormy sea.  Green is all this: the frog, the lily pad, the insect on its tongue, and the willow’s leaves grazing the greenish pond. Yes, of course, green is envy, jealousy and the clear appraisal of a cat’s eye. Green is sometimes goo, and bile, mold, oxidation, and life attacking itself; one of the colors has to be both creator and destroyer, does it not? In green we surrender.

Yellow is thus experienced flawlessly: amid a stand of aspens all gone golden — whose  leaves contains the sun itself — the willing human stands receptive, allowing the color to penetrate and permeate first through the top of the head, then through closed eyelids, then back and down the throat and deep into the heart where it glows in its purest form long enough to carry us through the crawling months of blue-white winter. In yellow we thrill.

Orange, perhaps the most maligned of colors, is the color of the shirt or sweater you rarely wear. A loudmouth of a color. Really, how could we be expected to pull off the signature color of goldfish and pumpkins, Gerber daisies, tangerines, Himalayan salt lamps, carrot soup, rust and monarch butterflies? Chicken Tikka and Thai iced tea: Now, there are oranges you won’t soon forget. Orange is the exclamation point of colors. It’s the flaming hair of prancing foxes in the cold dry air. Orange is electric. In orange we vibrate.

Red, the color that points its fat finger right back to the beginning of the spectrum, is a red-ripe rose, a rosehip, an apple, a tomato and a raspberry. It is Rudolph’s nose.  Red is the color of heat, of blood, of fire engines, stop signs, corrected papers, and that red dress that says, “Get me my heels, I won’t be stopped. And help me with my coat, while you’re at it.” It is the bossy child of color and needs supervision at all times, unless it’s a flower or a piece of fruit. It is a bull’s favorite and least favorite color. In red we surge.

Life gives us a rainbow of colors every day. All we have to do is look up from our handheld devices long enough to see, register and marvel. Amen.


#waffle vs. peach

Telluride Daily Planet, Sunday, September 20, 2015

I am staring down at my phone, at an Instagram post from a food blogger I like, trying to fathom how a sweet potato waffle gets 13,616 likes. Yes, of course, she has a lot of followers — 841K is what it says — with some of those followers possibly purchased, traded for, who knows, but enough people staring at a waffle to form a political party, and, for all I know, one that could usher in a kinder, sweeter (or more savory) era of breakfast-oriented national politics.

On second thought, no!

 So, 13,000 people have now stared at this post and taken a moment out of their day — at their desk at work, at their kitchen sink, sitting on a bench in a park, on a subway, walking down the street staring at their phone, lying in bed at night — to tap their finger on the screen and heart the post. What does this mean?

Does it mean we’re always hungry? That we follow the blogger? That we’re breakfast lovers? That the photo is particularly evocative? That we are inclined to follow a viral waffle? That we simply like the power of liking? That we heart and need the breakfast-in-bed waffle lifestyle? That we like it when people care enough to make food well and make it look pretty? That we are mindlessly touching screens like we used to mindlessly stare out windows? What?

Surely, the waffles look good; they do. On closer scrutiny, I kid you not, they happen to have used my plates in the styling, my everyday dinner set. The two sweet potato waffles have a fried egg on top, and a few wedges of compulsory avocado on the side. A tiny pitcher of syrup dots the NNE corner of the post. After scrolling through 231 comments, most of them a few words max and meant to get the attention of @someone, I am still staring at this blog post on my phone, thinking about all the recipes I’ve tried from these various bloggers. I am on my couch. Our deer family outside is busy eating our grass as sun glints through the quaking aspens.

Like a lot of us, I used to have a wall full of cookbooks. Everything from the old Rumford Cookbook that was my mother’s to dozens and dozens of books collected over many years and gifted from a friend in the publishing industry. I had my mother’s recipe box, the one my dad and I made for her, each index card stamped with a rooster I’d carved out of a pink eraser. I had all the yellowed newspaper clippings of appetizers and casseroles, with scribbled-in notes, cross-outs, substitutions. A little “good” at the top, underlined, was the old version of a Like.

Most of those cookbooks are gone now, given away. Some of the recipes I’ve kept just to honor tradition, but frankly, my mother, however French, was not a great cook. The war years (Paris, 1939-45) took away her appetite permanently and she fed us diligently but without — understandably — much delight in the process. Her kitchen hours were spent simply, with simple ingredients, some of them packaged, and Mozart playing on the transistor radio. I am unsure what she would have made of food blogs and posts on Instagram. She might have opted to post pictures of her roses, the magnolia tree, the dogwood, the precious white strawberries. Food would not have captured her fancy, not like it did my daughter’s, who started reading food blogs seriously at the age of fourteen.

Nowadays, we have six ingredients in the fridge and we can Google or hashtag what to do with them for dinner, sometimes rather ingeniously. We can order ethnic condiments online for overnight delivery. With the barrage of recipes coming at us from the blogosphere, we can learn about salting chocolate chip cookies, using beets to make burgers, cauliflower to make rice and coconut flour to make bread. We can search #waffles and get over a million Instagram posts, which doesn’t include #waffle (singular), #wafflelove, #waffletime or scores of others. Every day we can try something novel. Every meal, every snack, every smoothie can be new, improved, exciting and practically ready to photograph. We can photograph it, in fact, and post it to our own Instagram account. In my case, I would probably get my average: 15 likes. #notimpressive #ohsowhat

All of this in contrast to a moment in the kitchen the other day when we cut apart a large farmer’s market peach, paring out the bad parts and wondering how good it would be, lamenting the bruise after having spent about $3 for it. I slice off a hunk and drop it in my mouth like an oyster. The rest goes in my husband’s lunchbox. When he gets home, he says, “That peach from today?”

I know what he doesn’t even have to say. That it was absolute perfection. The best peach of the season, so sweet and tangy-skinned, so soft and ripe and juicy and reminiscent of everything summer. A non-virtual heart-of-the-now moment of taste, of pleasure, of sweetness and, yes, even lifestyle. Conclusion? #sometimessimpleisbest

Silent Night, Holy Night

Telluride Daily Planet, Sunday, December 21, 2014

The holidays have crept up from behind swiftly this year, like an army of elves waving alarm clocks in one hand and jingling bells in another, chasing after me. You’re late! Where’s your spirit of the season?I am?? Just moments ago, the aisles were full of bite-sized Snickers!

Seems like there used to be more time at Christmas. The space-time continuum would yawn and create time-warp wrinkles for things like pomanders, and popcorn strings, and lone peppermint sticks sucked on while the snow fell.

A pomander really takes no time at all, you know. An orange or a lemon, a toothpick, and a stack of clove nails are all you need. There is the pre-drill of a Victorian design into the juicy flesh of the citrus, and then there is the shoving of the cloves in one at a time. Thus is born for the mantle a refashioned fruit, redolent of holiday cheer and mulling spices, and representative of something sweet and simple and old-fashioned.

Yes, and every holiday season used to bring me time for batch after batch of biscotti, the two classic flavors friends and family got to know and ask for. A cookie so hard and crunchy you could stir your coffee with it. One year, early on, I made the mistake of adding four times the amount of anise seed — nailing the current more-is-better version. A year later, I found an electric knife in the Free Box and had an epiphaniscotti. Perfect slices every time. Time + serendipity = personal tradition.

Some Christmases, I actually had time to hand write cards I’d actually thought to buy early in December. My sincere — if minimalist — attempts were a weak semaphore response to the yearly newsletters that would appear in my mailbox, the ones with collage insets accompanying timelines, news of children, countries visited, accomplishments achieved. The ones I would stare at, thinking, wow, nothing but, wow.

Years ago, I used to build gingerbread houses with lifesaver windows and ice them and light them from inside. And even though the engineering and construction were crude, we made up for it with ornate candy detailing and yards filled with snow. Best of all, we’d stare it into real-ness, wondering who might live at such an address, who might be lucky enough to nibble on sweet walls instead of simply leaning on them.

Well, this year, I can’t keep the birdhouses full. The biscotti are not made. There are friends whose December birthdays I’ve missed and family I’ve not yet sent cards to. I’m behind on presents, bookkeeping and home-keeping. In fact, the uttermost apex of my current Christmas-keeping skills is watering. Watering the poinsettia, narcissus and amaryllis. Is time going faster every year, am I slowing down, or both?

Amidst all of this, I keep thinking of my father, who, somehow clueless to the fray of Christmas, used to do his own thing as my mom figured out the nuts and bolts of making it all happen. Dad would always and invariably get each of the kids dried fruit. Every year, trays of fruit from Harry & David. Apricots, dates, figs, pears, prunes, a few cherries and a little plastic two-pronged fork all mandala’d under Cellophane. Sometimes my sister and I would get a silk scarf or perfume. He would spend an entire night making bows out of curling ribbon, and wrapping boxes with the precision of a machine.

I never considered my father anything remotely resembling a peaceful man; but there were moments like these when, preoccupied by a small but mindful task, one could feel peace, unmitigated and expansive, emanating from him, through the walls, even, and into other rooms in the house, washing over everyone like a golden wave.

So, here it is, back again in the blink of an eye, the season of PEACE and JOY spelled out everywhere, from cards and pillows, to hand towels and welcome mats, to blinking lights strung across houses and yards. Everywhere we step, we are asked to step more lightly, more presently into the next moment, to honor slowing down and to take time to be present for whatever meaning exists for each of us at winter solstice. To smile even as we wince at the task list. To reprioritize, possibly pare down. To attempt to feel the deep peace we give lip service to, and to pass it on to the next person.

Here, now, as the sky darkens into black night, big fat bright flakes fall from the sky, aware of nothing, attached to nothing, quietly laying an immaculate blanket of peace onto the earth. Deer and elk bed down and bunnies burrow. Rivers freeze and the world glistens. And here, too, from the window, as we witness winter’s mystery, there is space-time – freshly created! — for wonderment, and thanks, and the true spirit of the season.