Simply Having...

There are things I love about the Christmas season. The sense of hope and excitement, the renewed emphasis on doing things for others, the traditional activities and events. The decorations and lights - I really love Christmas lights.

My first memories of Christmas are of the sharp pine scent from the tree, my father and grandfather muscling it in through the front door while my mother and grandmother scurried behind them sweeping fallen needles off the dark wood floor. I hovered in the doorway on the other side of the room, watching from afar as they wrestled it into place in the red metal stand. Once they finally secured it in place - an operation that usually resulted in much grunting and groaning and half-muttered expletives - the fun part could begin.

Decorating.

Lights, strands and strands of big, bulbous lights in all the primary colors. Plus bubble lights, thin colored cylinders containing effervescent liquid that magically burbled away. Tinsel - skinny, silvalicious strands draped all over the branches. The ornaments came last, blue, gold, red, green, silver balls of thinnest glass.

When it was all done, my mother tucked a red felt skirt around the bottom.

My father switched out all the lights, save for those on the tree.

Oh, the glory of that room bathed in the rainbow colored glow of the Christmas tree. It washed over me like the warmth of baptismal water. It filled my tiny spirit with excitement and wonder and peace.

That's the feeling I keep looking for now, more than 50 years after those first early memories of Christmas times. That feeling of being enveloped in wonder, in love, of being cherished and nurtured.

When I was growing up, Christmas was easy to navigate. My maternal grandparents lived with us. Several of my aunts and uncles on my mother's side were nearby. My paternal grandfather lived five miles away. My father's siblings and all my cousins lived within hailing distance. We saw them all at some point on the Christmas Eve-Christmas Day continuum.

Now, everyone in my family is scattered hither and thither. My father, gravely ill with cancer and Parkinson's disease, is in Florida. My mother, frail but still fighting, is here in Michigan. My only child, with his wife and child, are in Texas. My grandparents are, of course, long dead and buried, and most of my aunts and uncles with them.

No one wrestles a pine tree into the living room. We just pull one out of the box (pre-lit) and plug it in.

There is no juggling of schedules in order to make it to all the relatives houses before the end of  Christmas day.

Tonight, we had my mother here to our new home, and celebrated our tiny Christmas. I made dinner, and she sat at our dining room table which she says is the most beautiful dining room table she has ever seen. She picked at her food, as she is wont to do now. She opened her presents - new warm pajamas, candy and nuts, and the traditional calendar featuring pictures of the two little dogs we all love so dearly. She went home to her big house, where she will be alone for the next week.

Tomorrow, my husband and I will fly to Texas to visit our son, daughter-in-law and grandson for Christmas. We are blessed beyond measure to have this new child in our family, to have his parents together to raise him with love and security. We are in awe of him, and would be perfectly happy spending every day just watching him do what he does.

But tonight when I drove my mother home, I realized that I will never have my family all together at Christmas again. I wonder what it would have been like -  if my parents had not gotten divorced, if my son had not moved away, if we had all stayed in one place like people used to do. I imagine my grandson here in my living room playing with his toys, my son and daughter in law sprawled on the floor beside him and my parents tucked side by side on the sofa. The dogs would sleep quietly on the hearth (except for Molly, who snores something awful) while the fire gently blazed. Jim and I would pour a glass of wine and survey the scene.

I would turn off all the lights save for those on the huge pine tree we had wrestled into that empty corner by the staircase.

And I would be bathed in wonder and love.

Wishing you the peace and beauty of Christmas, the joy of family, and the hope of a bright tomorrow.

Write On Wednesday: Wish List

'Tis the season for wishing, for daring to let your thoughts wander through the realms of possibility. Writers are masterful wish-makers, even though we sometimes get discouraged when there is no genie in a bottle to grant the desires of our heart. Making wishes reality requires equal measure of work and whimsey. Flannery O'Connor knew that. She said she sat down at her desk every day from 10 until 12 so the muse would know where to find her. Some days I'm sure she felt alone, staring at her blank piece of paper. But on the days her muse joined her, there was magic in the room.

Most writers wish for more time, and I'm no exception. My writing time usually comes at the end of a long day, or in the few minutes between errands, or at the tail end of finishing some work. Right now I'm typing with one eye on the clock, knowing I have about 30 minutes before the next item on my agenda. But time is only as good as we make it. When given the gift of extra time, all too often I'm tempted to squander it scrolling through Facebook or Twitter feeds instead of putting my own words on the page.

The writer inside me wishes for quiet. The world is so raucous. It has become increasingly difficult for me to focus when I'm bombarded with noise. Music blares in every store, news feeds scroll across the bottom of the television screen, e-mail alerts beep and task reminders buzz. I am on a search for more stillness in my daily life. My morning walks through the neighborhood are an oasis of quiet. I breathe deeply in and out and try to let the perpetually racing thoughts slow to a steady crawl.

Every writer wishes for inspiration. Where does it come from? For me, it often comes from the words of writers I love. Classic authors like Jane Austen and Charlotte Bronte. Modern day favorites such as Anne Tyler, Mary Gordon, Anna Quindlen, Julia Glass, Alice Munro. Sometimes all it takes is a 30 minutes with one of their books and my fingers are itching to get at the keyboard.

"Tis the season for wishing.

What's at the top of your writer's wish list this year?

The Sunday Salon: Old School

With all the enticing new books being published all the time, it's easy to forget some of the great stories that have been around for years - or even decades. I was reminded of that earlier this week when a trip to the library netted me a couple oldie-but-goodie paperbacks, and got me hooked on an entire series that will keep me entertained throughout the winter. Sara Paretsky's series of mysteries featuring hard-nosed, Chicago female private investigator V. I. (for Victoria Iphegenia) Warshawski had completely escaped my attention until I read a great little book called Leave Me Alone, I'm Reading. In it, Maureen Corrigan, NPR Book Editor, wrote about some of the books that have meant the most to her during her reading life, and Paretsky's series was among them. The first book, Indemnity Only, published in 1982, introduces the fast talking, smart mouthed V.I. - or "Vic" as we soon learn to call her. Written in that inimitable Raymond Chandler/Dashiell Hammett style, with short clipped sentences and atmospheric descriptions, Paretsky quickly grabs the readers attention and pulls you right into the story.

Here's what Maureen Corrigan and I both love about Vic - she's completely her own boss, she's fearless, she says whatever she means and makes no apologies. But she still enjoys soaking in a hot bath at the end of a long day, with candles glowing and Italian opera on the radio. She takes her steak rare and her Scotch neat, promising herself an extra hour of running in the morning to prevent the pounds from creeping up. Without batting an eye, she takes on the mostly male establishments in banking, politics, labor unions, and the police force, and makes them accountable, her sharp wit and ever sharper tongue her most powerful weapons.

Vic's character is as complex as the mysteries she trying to solve, and in some ways her story is more engaging than the plot. She began her career as a Public Defender, but left because she got tired of following political rules. On page 13 of Indemnity Only, we get a interesting glimpse into her formative past.

I put on jeans and a yellow cotton top and surveyed myself in the mirror with critical approval. I look my best in the summer. I inherited my Italian mother's olive coloring, and tan beautifully. I grinned at myself. I could hear her saying, "Yes, Vic, you are pretty - but pretty is no good. Any girl can be pretty - but to take care of yourself you must have brains. And you must have a job. A profession. You must work." She had hoped I would be a singer and had trained me patiently; she certainly wouldn't have liked my being a detective. Nor would my father. He's been a policeman himself. Polish in an Irish world. He's never made it beyond sergeant, due partly to lack of ambition, but also I was sure, to his ancestry. But he'd expected great things of me...My grin went a little sour in the mirror and I turned away abruptly.

Clearly Vic feels herself to have fallen short of parental expectation, and it's poignant to see how this tough, self-confident woman can fall prey to the same emotional traps the rest of us women do.

Of course the best thing about discovering a series like this is that I'm guaranteed reading material for quite some time. Paretsky has published 14 more V.I. Warshawski novels, a good many of which I snagged at the library book sale last Saturday for 50 cents each.

So I'll be spending a lot more time with Vic this winter. I couldn't be in better company, either.

How about you? Have you ever stumbled across a book or series of books that have been around for a long time but somehow escaped your radar?

The Rule

When I find myself in times of trouble, Mother Mary comes to me Speaking words of wisdom, let it be, let it be. And in my hour of darkness she is standing right in front of me Speaking words of wisdom, let it be. And when the broken hearted people living in the world agree There will be an answer, let it be For though they may be parted, there is still a chance that they will see

There will be an answer, let it be.

There has always been and always will be senseless evil in the world. We think society has evolved, has become so sophisticated, but then that evil appears once again just as primitive and ugly as it ever was. Today it appeared in an elementary school in Newton, Connecticut. It appeared in the form of a 20 year old man, carrying guns. A man whose mother taught young children in that school. A man who had so much hatred in his heart that he mercilessly could kill innocent children.

How can we heal people who are so badly broken? And how did they get that way in the first place? You can't write legislation to prevent that level of sickness.

I only wish you could.

Over 2000 years ago, a man gave us a Rule, a piece of legislation if you will. "Love one another as you would be loved. Do unto others as you would have done to you."

So simple. And yet so hard to make reality.

But what would the world look like if we could?

I wonder. Oh, I wonder.

Write on Wednesday: What's It All About?

"It once seemed all-important to get to a certain salary level; my professional self-worth was tied to that figure. Now, instead, I’m morphing into measuring my self worth through professional development and creative evolution." ~Bethanne Patrick, What About the Money, Money, Money?, Between the Margins I don't suppose there is a writer among us who hasn't dreamed of quitting their day job and writing full time. Just the thought of it conjures a laundry list of romantic possibilities - hours whiled away over legal pads covered in handwriting, stacks of books and articles amassed for research, long walks in the woods while pondering character and plot development.

Most full time writers would probably tell you the operative word in that paragraph is "dreamed," because the reality isn't always so rosy. Like any job, writing has its share of frustration, tediousness, and even abject failure.

As I scroll through the Twitter and Facebook posts from some of my favorite new authors, I notice a number of them taking the huge plunge, leaving behind flourishing careers in editing, publishing, and teaching in order to dedicate themselves heart and soul to the writing life.

Most importantly, they are making a success of this endeavor, publishing novels and memoirs. I stand in awe of their courage and self discipline. I know their rewards are great.

I think it marks an important change for the literary world when women who have what society might consider a dream career decide to exchange it in order to fulfill their creative dreams, to "measure self-worth...through creative evolution" rather than a certain salary level. It's not easy, and certainly not always possible, to risk the security of steady income. But for those who have the opportunity to engage in the writing life full time and the dedication to be a writer writing - that's what it's all about.