What I feared was the immensity of it all . . .
~ from The Invention of Wings by Sue Monk Kidd
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I’m back in Florida. I went from 14* that day I flew out of Santa Fe to 79*. Snow on the mountain & Southwest vistas to sweat & flat lands, palm trees, green grass and water. The shock of so much pavement, weed-whackers and the roaring hum of traffic & a/c’s. It took a day to acclimate. This is Home, I told myself. My stuff’s all around. But that first night, I startled awake, kicked with fear thinking something in the bed! when my husband touched me. Truth is, home for me is the high desert of NM. So, in 5 weeks, I’m moving back.
Last year we packed over the holidays, too. A poinsettia and wreath on the door to say Christmas is here. I surprised myself by writing a different kind of holiday letter. One that reflected something good inside, amidst the angst.
Last week I bought this year’s decorations – a 6” potted poinsettia, a tiny norfolk island pine with a red glittered star on a spike & 4 little gold glittered balls on the baby branches, and a wreath for the door that smells divine. Made me happy, getting those. But today I realize Christmas is 12 days off. I wonder what holiday letter I’ll write this time.
Christmas used to be so Big for me. Tree, wreaths, presents, cookies and special foods. I felt it all with full-blown Joy. I loved the lights. Loved giving presents, starting with the hunt for the right one, just for that person. And Christmas Eve. . .the many years with my son. How we shared the kitchen when he got older. Music of the season. The year he gave me Vince Guaraldi’s Charlie Brown Christmas music and I couldn’t get enough, had it on loop. The year he flew to Santa Fe, the other three years there he didn’t fly out and I hosted friends for a grand sit-down Christmas Eve dinner. The 8 of us at the core expanding for new boyfriends, new friends, others alone, grown children in for the holidays. Portuguese fisherman’s stew. I was a pescaterian then. On Christmas day, always Handal’s Messiah. Me in the middle of the room, singing the Hallelujah Chorus with the recording at the top of my lungs, the second soprano part still remembered from junior high. Tears streaming down my face as I sing. Then, in 2007 the lights went out from grief over my son 180* across the globe. I’ve not gotten the magic back, tho I’ve tried. Tho last year, one predawn dark morning, I walked down the middle of the street of the historic neighborhood where I lived singing ‘Angels we have heard on high, sweetly singing o’re the plains. . ‘, .my voice rising on Gloo-ooooo-oooria.
One year I packed with a sprained wrist. One year with a sprained foot. This year I’m packing injured, again. Smashed fingers. A bruised thumb and a middle finger split open top & bottom after getting caught in sliding glass door. The middle finger so traumatized my other uninjured fingers throbbed in pain, too. Both on my right hand. (darn) I quickly learned body memory of the keyboard over-rides intention to use diff fingers. Those last new-learned details will definitely go into a novel.
The fourth downsize in five years, I’m seeing thru a new lens. Seeing details of my other lifetimes I hadn’t noticed before. Such as the tattered plastic bag that holds cards.
In the early 80s I helped a friend drive across country from Durham to Denver. It was a time of hand-written letters and notes. I was always on the hunt for a good card to add to my cache. (still am). Anyway, there was a store in Denver strictly devoted to cards. I bought a number, and tho it now sports a tear halfway down one side, the black plastic bag I walked out with has been my keeper for everyday cards ever since. The store was named avant-card (all lower case). Today, 30+ yrs. later, I notice for the first time the address was Writer Square. Writer. Me!
And for years I’ve kept all things Cards (capital C) in a perfectly sized cardboard box. Postcards, Original Art cards, individual specialty cards, keepsake cards, cards I collected of fav ‘local’ artists’ work that I display, and my black plastic bag filled with everyday cards. A glance and I know where cards are by the box, and I just noticed the label on its side. It reads our first Santa Fe address, circa 1993.
I could tape the bag. I’ve thought about it often. I could cover this perfectly sized box with pretty or sentimental images, as a friend suggests. But I like their evolved state. The shabbiness somehow doesn’t bother me. It feels right. Like comfortable history.
When I finished sorting office supplies, saw the small to-go pile, I thought I must be down to love levels. Because I love office supplies. I played office as a kid. Still love wandering office supply stores. I love having the right color & weight of paper when I want it. Love sheet protectors and notebooks and folders right there when I need them. Love having envelopes any size for anything. (I’ve saved all the left-overs from cards, so no shortage!) And yet, I dislike admin. Really dislike it. The dichotomy of this struck me. The shabby bag & box which seems so not Me, too. Me is wearing socks the color that coordinate with my outfit, and no wrinkles except in linen.
Perhaps I’m reaching that place of Being where all of me finally co-exists in peace. Where some things simply don’t matter if what’s there feels right.
Every year Pantone chooses a color of the year. They call it a symbolic snapshot of what they see taking place in ‘our global culture that serves as an expression of a mood and an attitude.’ The color for 2017 is Greenery:
Greenery is nature’s neutral. The more submerged people are in modern life, the greater their innate craving to immerse themselves in the physical beauty and inherent unity of the natural world. . .A constant on the periphery, Greenery is now being pulled to the forefront. . .A life-affirming shade, Greenery is also emblematic of the pursuit of personal passions and vitality.
I find their choice so interesting. I would’ve chosen Red, for burning down the house. But then, that isn’t very hopeful, is it? Hope inspires, which is what we, what I, surely need. An nature has indeed saved me these past few years.
A friend shared her pleasure wearing layers in Oregon vs. the shorts & tees she’d be wearing in Phoenix. I love wearing layers, too. I love jackets & scarves, textures & shapes. When I lived in Asheville, I’d buy my year’s wardrobe in Santa Fe each fall. Pick up sweaters in travels to cold climes. But five years wearing shorts and little skirts in Florida, same-same winter clothes in two short months a year in cold climes, rarely layering beyond a linen shirt, I’ve added few cold weather clothes. I’m ready for new winter duds. 2017 will be new home, new book, new face to the world, new clothes. It’s scary, as in can I do it all? And something to look forward to. Showing up with all of me. And layers.
Another small journey. Getting to Wise.
A Writer’s Life.
Tell me. . . what does this season hold for you?
I’ll tell you a secret. . .Trust is my guiding light right now.