Believe

Like most children, my son always had a definite list of things he wanted for Christmas.  For a number of years, each holiday had us adding square footage to his Hot Wheels City, until it became a megalopolis that would put New York to shame.  Then there was the year he had to have a Brio wooden train (which was somehow never as much fun at home as it was in the toy shop).  As he grew, his heart's desire turned to electronics - first cassette and then CD players, followed by computers.  One memorable Christmas, there was even a car, a 1993 Grand Prix covered with red ribbons, hiding in my mother's garage. If it sounds like we spoiled him, well, we did.  When your son is the only child of two only children, the only grandson on both sides of the family, you can bet he got pretty much everything he wanted.  I'm happy to say it didn't hurt him a bit - he's grown up to be a hardworking, responsible, generous young man.

This Christmas, my son is looking for a gift I'm completley powerless to provide.  He and his wife have their hearts set on having a baby, and, like many other couples, have found it to be a difficult process.  Last month, they traveled to Thailand (my daughter in law's native country) to begin treatments with a fertility specialist.  And today, they take a very important next step in their journey toward having a family of their own.

No matter how old your children become, or how competent they are at handling their own life, it's difficult to relinquish the desire to rush in and make everything all better, to fix the problems and insure they get whatever they need to make them happy.  When the problem is totally out of your control, the frustration level is immense, especially for a control freak like me.

So I'm putting all my energy into faith, into my belief that they are destined to become parents because I know their child would bring great gifts to the world.  

And what better season than this to believe in the miraculous power of birth?

Just believe.

Status Report

So the first weekend of the 2008 holiday season is almost gone. How's it going?

Actually, not too badly - thanks for asking.

Perhaps confession is good for the soul.  Admitting my long standing antipathy toward the holidays in my last post was cathartic, as in "there I've said it...my name is Becca and I hate Christmas."

So I marshaled my emotional resources, pulled my self together and (so far) made it through the weekend with a minimum of angst.

Whew.

I've accomplished a few things, which always makes me feel better.  Things like getting a head start on my next big project for work and assembling all the photos for the annual Magic and Molly calendar we give as gifts to all the members of the Magic and Molly fan club  ~ don't laugh, they have quite a legion of admirers here in the neighborhood.

We made some decisions about our travel plans for the holidays, something we'd been dithering about for the past month.  We usually drive to Florida for an extended holiday, taking the pups with us.  This year, with our kids away in Thailand for the holidays, we found ourselves vacillating about the trip.  When our friends invited us to join them at their timeshare in Las Vegas early in January, we decided to use our vacation days that way. 

I tried not to overeat, which isn't all that difficult because I really don't like turkey all that much(another confession!)  My mother's homemade carrot cake presents a different story altogether, and I have been indulging my sweet tooth unmercifully.

I watched a movie last night (Sex and the City- adored it!) and a fabulous documentary about an insider's tour of the White House on the history channel tonight. 

And then, I put up my Christmas decorations.  It's my tradition to "dress the house" on Thanksgiving weekend, a tradition that stems from long years of December weekends filled to the brim with concerts, leaving no time for decorating.  Although I have nothing on my personal musical calendar this year (a totally amazing occurrence) I decided to continue the tradition.  It felt good to get out the tree and the mantel decorations, the garlands and angel collection, and sit reading in the warm glow of all the little white lights.

So I've made a pretty good start to the holidays. As I wrote on my Facebook page..."Becca is cautiously optimistic."  About lots of things :)

How about you? How's your holiday weekend going so far?

And for all the members of the Magic and Molly fan club - here's a sneak preview of the calendar pics for 2009!

Sorry Grateful

Many of the high school students I accompanied had a real fetish for the music of Stephen Sondheim.  Knowing he wasn't one of my favorite composers, they would sheepishly hand over their music notebooks open to a tattered Sondheim piece.  Several of the boys latched onto "Sorry Grateful," a song with a melodic line and rhythmic feeling which are just as odd as it's title.  Even though I heard the song dozens of times, I always cringed at the juxtaposition of these two words.  "Sorry" and "grateful" never seemed to work together in my mind. Today, though, I feel as if they finally make sense to me, this odd combination of emotions piggy-backed on top of each other.   Perhaps I'm feeling sorry enough for myself this Thanksgiving Eve that I can tap into the memory of adolescent angst which serves as a magnet for introspective songs like these.

You're always sorry You're always grateful You're always wondering what might have been...

You're sorry-grateful Regretful-happy Why look for answers Where none occur?

You always are What you always were...

Confession time.  I'm one of those people for whom holidays are simply - alright, I'm going to say it - agonizing.  I fall into a huge, funkous depression every year around this time, and it lasts clear through until January 2, when I heave a big sigh of relief, pick myself up, dust myself off, and start living again. 

This may have its roots in the horrendous holiday celebrations I was forced to endure when my in-laws were still around.  My father in law, an evangelical charter member of the John Birch Society, usually launched into his "Armageddon" speech right about the time we passed the first platter of turkey.  My mother in law would do her best to quiet him, which usually involved her own brand of excoriating criticisms and declamations.  My husband would continue eating through gritted teeth, until, grim faced, he would push angrily back from the table.  "Enough!" he would  shout.  "I can't take this anymore."

Ah, yes.  Sorry grateful.

My anathema toward the holidays could also stem from a regrettable pattern of childhood illness which always found me laid low at Christmas time with bronchitis or asthma.  Whether it was the cold weather, the forced air heat in the furnace, or (as my mother insisted) too much excitement, I was inevitably too sick to attend the annual Christmas party with all my paternal aunts, uncles, and cousins.  Unbeknownst to my mother (whom I'm sure thought I was just as glad as she was to be spared this hoopla) I was heartsick every year when I had to stay home in bed while my dad went off alone to the party.  I didn't care so much about the sackful of presents he brought back for me...I wanted to be right smack in the middle of all those noisy kids and laughing adults.  Instead, I was tucked safely into my bed at home, slathered with Vicks while the vaporizer chugged and hissed, filling the room with hot, moist steam.

Ah yes.  Sorry grateful.

Where's the grateful part? you ask.  Well, I'm aware I have a good life - always have.  I'm grateful for my health, my relative wealth, my home(s), and most of all, the people who love me.  But every holiday season, I go looking for something that just isn't there.  A sense of well being or belonging, a feeling of excitement or anticipation - all the things that the world prods us to hope for during this season.  I keep hoping it'll turn up, but it never seems to be there.  This year, with my family more fragmented by distance than ever, that elusive spark of holiday happiness seems completely out of reach.  More and more, I feel myself turning inward, longing for a closet to crawl into for the next six weeks, so I can come out into the clean light of a new year with all that holiday nonsense cleaned up and tossed in the dust bin where it belongs.

Sorry grateful. 

All of life is an alternating pattern of sorry grateful, everyone knows that, and Stephen Sondheim was only one of many composers who capitalized on this dichotomy.  I really want to be happy during the holiday season, I'm really sorry that somehow I just never can be.

And I'm truly grateful when it's over.

Grateful

A short post today, to accomodate all the holiday busyness... During these days to focus on thankfulness, I'm certainly grateful for the wonderful community of writers and friends who have gathered at this writer's roundtable for the past few months. 

If you have a moment to write during these next days, you might share your thoughts on the people who have inspired you in your writing journey.  For some, it might be teachers or friends, for others, lovers or children.  Perhaps it's an author whose work you admire, and whose words set your fingers itching to pick up a pencil.

Enjoy the feast 'round your dining room tables tomorrow. 

We'll reconvene here soon.

Realizing Life

So it's snowy, blowy, and cold here in Michigan on this Monday afternoon.  I'm home now, so I don't altogether mind this weather, and in fact am rather comforted by the ability to stay indoors with my dogs and potter around the house for a change.  Of course there were places to go this morning - a quick trip to Joe's Market to get some pears for my salad lunch tomorrow, a stopover at the Classical Bell rehearsal to fill in for a friend during their last hour.   But then, I was home, not gone long enough even for Magic and Molly to miss me, for they were still curled up in their sleeping chair by the window when I came into the house. I really enjoy the particular way snow illuminates a room - it casts such a sparkling, clean glow on everything, especially when it's first falling.  For some reason it makes me sentimental, and today I'm recalling other snowy days in my life, when there was a small boy in the house to entertain and nothing but time with which to do it.  I'm sure it seemed as if I had pressing concerns in those days, but now looking back, there was really nothing more important (or there shouldn't have been!) then reading the pile of picture books we kept on the coffee table or helping him arrange his fleet of Matchbox cars around the perimeter of the bed.  There were no reports to write for work, no music to learn, no one who needed transportation to a store or a doctor's office. 

Life was simple then, and I just didn't know it.

Friday night I attended a high school production of Our Town, Thornton Wilder's classic play about life in Grover's Corners, New Hampshire at the turn of the century.  The play was unusually well done by high school standards, and I felt that most of the main characters really "got" the message Wilder was trying to convey about the precious nature of everyday life. 

"Do any human beings ever realize life while they live it?" Emily Gibbs plaintively asks from the grave.

Probably not.  Certainly most days I am mostly irritated by life...by the constant running to and fro, the endless worries about health and money and the state of the world, the forever nagging feeling that I should be doing something other than what I'm doing, should be more productive, more effective, more proactive.

So this afternoon, instead of persisting in a mad dash through Monday, I consciously slowed my pace to match the gently falling flakes of snow, settled into my chair with a blanket and hot tea, spent several minutes scratching Magic in that favorite spot behind his ears, gave Molly equal time by rubbing the nape of her neck, and then read two chapters in a new book one of my friends loaned me yesterday. 

Nothing exciting here on a snowy, blowy Monday. 

 Just me, trying to "realize life."

I hope you're realizing yours today, too.