Tuesday Slice: The quiet week

 

We may have two weeks off for Winter Break, but the second week is really the break I get.

The first week is always spent playing Christmas prep catch-up--the buying, the baking, the wrapping and the sending.  Sure, there was some groundwork laid before break, but most of those efforts went towards work, getting goodies to colleagues before we all scurried out of the building on that last day.  The priorities always seem to fall in that order:  holiday at work, then taking care of out-of-country and out-of-state family, then local.  

Christmas Day comes with a silent cheer of "Whew!  We made it!".

Then the day after Christmas arrives, with the promise of a quiet week ahead.  We've adopted a Twelve Days of Christmas mentality in our home; decorations stay up until January 6th, so each morning I can meditate by the light of our Christmas tree.  I send most of our cards out now, not in a rush, but with time to think about and treasure the recipients.  Cookies are delivered to neighbors, the mail carrier, the garbage truck drivers.  I have time to set intentions for the coming year, time to read, time to enjoy a quiet cup of coffee on the front porch.

This is the week I look forward to each year, this time between Christmas and New Year's Day--my quiet week.

Wishing all my fellow Slicers a happy, healthy, and blessed New Year!

Tuesday Slice: Hibernation isn't just for dormice

"There is not enough night left for us.  We have lost our true instincts for darkness, its invitation to spend some time in the proximity of our dreams.  Our personal winters are so often accompanied by insomnia: perhaps we're drawn towards that unique space of intimacy and contemplation, darkness and silence, without really knowing what we're seeking.  Perhaps, after all, we are being urged towards our own comfort.

"Sleep is not a dead space, but a doorway to a different kind of consciousness--one that is reflective and restorative..."

--Katherine May, Wintering:  The Power of Rest and Retreat in Difficult Times 

The arrival of May's book was apropos.  It is winter, after all, and we can all agree that this past year qualifies as difficult times.  Without conscious attempt, I found myself reading her chapter on visiting Stonehenge for the Winter Solstice on the eve of our own.  Austin is nowhere near Wiltshire, England, but I did have better luck viewing the Saturn-Jupiter conjunction last night than May did of witnessing the sunrise between monoliths on a cloudy morning.

I'm only halfway through the book, and May's chapter on hibernation has resonated the most with me so far.  Perhaps it's the residual effects from our cabin Getaway ten days ago--forty or so hours of living by our internal clocks, now barely replicated by our school holiday break.  Ask any teacher what the biggest difference between work hours and break hours is, and I'll bet the answer is the amount of sleep they're getting, and when they are getting it.  

There is an interesting phenomenon May discusses in relation to hibernation.  Dormice are one of the few English animals that truly hibernate, but even they wake up every ten days or so to reevaluate and repair their lodgings before falling back into unconsciousness.  When scientists subjected human volunteers to sleep schedules based on the availability of light--had them attempt sleep for the fourteen hours of winter darkness--they found a consistent waking period of one to two hours just after midnight.  This time was known as "the watch", and documents from pre-electric times describe these hours as contemplative, dreamy, a time to connect with a lover or family members. People then fell back asleep until daybreak.  I'm tempted to replicate this experiment, but I'm not sure the rest of my family would appreciate tiptoeing past my bedroom for the five hours they are usually awake past winter sunset. 

Instead, I find myself wanting to dim the lights at sunset, turn the volume down, engage in gentle activity.  My visible productivity seems at an all-time low, but my thoughts are constant, my attention diverted as other streams of consciousness form.  I'm noticing more and talking less.  There aren't as many presents under the tree, but do we really need more?  The Nativity set isn't up yet, but there's today to get it done...and didn't the Holy Family find shelter just barely in time for Mary to give birth?  I am learning to accept what is and what isn't due to this extraordinary year.

I'm almost saddened by the fact that from here on out, daylight hours will be increasing.  I'm ready to hibernate, to keep watch, to dream by candlelight in these waning winter nights.  There are gifts in the darkness; the restful retreat is just what I need during these difficult times.

Tuesday Slice: Giving notice

 

On Friday afternoon, we gave notice to the world around us:  

you have approximately three hours to drain our minds and hearts with news of civil unrest and violence and prejudice and criminal intent and holiday advertisements of you-gotta-have-this and you-gotta-give-this and you-gotta-do-that and work emails and deadlines and traffic noises and sirens in the middle of our neighborhood and...and...

And then the towns became fewer and farther between.  The trees outnumbered the count on city limits signs.  There were cows in front yards and Rudolph painted on the side of rolled-up hay bales.   

It got dark quickly.  We took a turn onto one county road, then another, and yet another.  Our tiny-house-cabin was tucked into the back left of a gravelly cul-de-sac, three like-neighbors barely seen through the scraggly forest.

Stepping out of the car, we took in lungfuls of cool piney winter air, letting the dark enfold us like a blanket before the chill set in and forced us to step inside. 

On Friday evening, we took notice of each other and the world around us.

Raindrops on a pine bough at our weekend Getaway.

Tuesday Slice: Three trees

 

Twenty years ago, I bought a book for my children--The Tale of Three Trees: A Traditional Folktale retold by Angela Elwell Hunt, illustrated by Tim Jonke.

It is a Christian story about three trees who dream of becoming great things--a treasure chest, mighty ocean-going ship, the tallest tree in the world.  As you might guess, the first becomes the manger of Bethlehem, the second a simple fishing boat that witnesses the miracle of stormy seas calmed with a word, the third a crucifix.

I hadn't thought of this story for years, until I looked again at an heirloom I recently had framed as a Christmas decoration.

The crocheted piece came in a jumble of doilies and bureau scarves from my father.  My mother and paternal grandmother were both known for crocheting such delicate creations; I'm leaning toward the latter for credit, though I can't be sure.

Whomever it was...was the piece meant to represent the folk tale?  We may never know.  But now that my head and heart have made the connection, I'll be sure to pass along the art and the book together, for the next generation to ponder.

Tuesday Slice: Poetic moments

Yellow leaves

flit and flutter

on an autumn breeze

like unseasonable butterflies.

*******

"Why are you looking at me?",

his manchild smile chuckles

from across the table.

"Mamas like feeding their babies good food,"

I say, echoing his smile.

"Babies like eating their mama's good food,"

he says, diving back into his dinner.

********

We decorate for Christmas

more slowly these days

Bits and pieces placed over weeks 

instead of a week-end

Picking up remnants of Halloween and

Thanksgiving and last Christmas

as we go.

Slower, yes, but the decorations do go up.

They must go up; they have to go up.

To not do so is admitting defeat.

*********

"Don't you miss her?"

people say about my Japangirl.

"Of course I do,"

I answer, but

there's texting, and video chatting

and emails, and global express mail.

And then I think

How did my parents survive

dragging me and my brother around the globe

without texting, and video chatting

and emails, and global express mail?

Another brick gets placed in their pedestals.

**********

Rabbit, rabbit, rabbit.

Tradition says to say it twice

but three's my number.

No one is ever around to hear it

but I say it aloud, anyway.

Not unlike talking to the saints and angels

when I'm looking for something 

in the clutter of home.

Happy first day of December, fellow Slicers!