Tuesday Slice: Last days of November

 

We have a benignly strict tradition in our house, carried forward from my own childhood restriction:  no Christmas music until Santa arrives at the end of the Macy's Thanksgiving Parade.  It's a rule that has come to mean more to me as I've gotten older, to reserve the November holiday for family, and food, and giving thanks before the jolly Christmas mayhem begins.

A good tradition, yes....but I've been Christmas shopping since July.  Without the music, I promise, but there have been gifts set aside for quite awhile.

Did that stop me from taking advantage of online sales last Friday?  Nope.

Did I do even more damage to my credit card on Cyber Monday?  Yep.

Are we still in November?  Another confirmed yes, according to the Sandra Boynton calendar on my kitchen pantry door.

It's hard to think of the days after Thanksgiving, up to December first, as November.  November is brown, leaves falling, turkey basting, the smell of sage stuffing and apple pie baking.  December is sparkling red and green and white, pop carols on the radio, wrapping paper on the living room floor, gingerbread in the oven...except, wait, all that is happening, and it's...still...November.

Thank goodness this situation will be set aright when I flip that calendar page on Thursday.

Tuesday Slice: Sweater weather, at last!

 

Shivering, I

Work my arms into

Each warm, soft sleeve

Admiring the pattern as I

Turn down the heater a bit

Enveloped in my own, climate-controlled

Relief from the cold.

Winter is just around the corner,

Each cool breeze a prelude, nudging

Autumn out of the way

The morning frost isn't far behind

Helped along by the lengthening night

Enveloping my smoky breath

Rising from sweater-warmed lungs.

Tuesday Slice: A day off

 

Today, there will be writing, and planning, and reading.

Today, there will be laundry, and dusting, and cleaning.

Today, there will be music, and yarnwork, and holiday prepping.

I will be doing my best to avoid the television and computer screen.

I have already cast my ballot.

The results can wait until tomorrow.

Today, in solitude, I will breathe deeply and often.

(Today, I will cross my fingers.)

Spiritual Journey Thursday: Hallowed ground

 

Fran Haley has prompted the writing circle with the idea

of "holy" this month.  You can read her post, and the group's

linked posts, here.

I'm not sure when exactly it happened.  After my first child?  My second? 

Whenever it happened...I surprised myself.

The Sign of the Cross is the tell of a Christian raised in the Roman Catholic Church.  We dab our fingers in holy water and cross ourselves as we enter sanctuaries, making the Sign again and again throughout Mass, blessing ourselves as we exit.  Beyond chapel walls, the Sign begins and ends prayer (most often at the dining table).

I wasn't familiar with the tradition of making the Sign in the presence of other spaces until high school.  A friend, fellow Catholic with Latinx roots, urged me to cross myself as we passed churches and graveyards--to ward off evil and solicit blessings, she said.  That habit followed me for many years, despite my gradual departure from the Church of my youth.

I was still a fairly regular attendee of Sunday Mass when it happened--the urge, and follow-through, to make the Sign of the Cross while driving past...a hospital.

Not just any hospital.  The one where my children were born. Even more specifically, the hospital that bore witness to my less-than-ideal deliveries.  The hospital where angels-on-earth saved my twenty-six-week premature firstborn, cared for me through a miscarriage, and safely delivered my son, saving my life in the process.  The hospital that allowed me to ensure that another pregnancy wouldn't endanger my life again, to continue mothering my children.

The memories of giving birth in the presence of such care, compassion, and competence fill me with awe and reverence, not unlike entering a grand cathedral with a golden tabernacle.

Is it any wonder, then, that my hand goes to my forehead, heart, shoulders as I pass that building?  I utter a silent prayer of gratitude for the caregivers within and the blessings they gave me on that hallowed ground.  

Tuesday Slice: Except for the mosquitoes

 

The weather has been pleasantly cool(er) these past few evenings. Looking out our window, we spied our costumed neighbor and her friend setting up chairs in the driveway to pass out treats.  "We could do that, too," said my husband.  "We could," I replied.  We made sure our chocolate and non-chocolate containers were full, gathered our water jugs, and headed to the front porch.

We were visited by several swarms of children, many of whom are my students.  It was fun to hear them tell their parents "That's my librarian!" as they headed down the sidewalk.

We were also visited by several mosquitoes.

I can't imagine what I looked like, brushing at my face and arms at the slightest sensation, standing up suddenly and swatting the air like a windmill as two or three of those flying bloodsuckers passed within my field of vision.

We didn't get as many trick-or-treaters this year.  I wonder why....