Becca Rowan is a writer and the author of Life in General, a collection of essays about mid-life as experienced by an American woman in the 21st century. Becca loves creating connections by sharing stories on her popular blog.
It seems to me there is a definite lack of Christmas/Holiday spirit around these parts.
And this year, it’s not just me - the perpetual Grinch who clamps her hands over her ears as soon as the radio stations go “all carols all the time.” It’s evident from the decreased amount of outdoor decorations in our community and in the surrounding neighborhoods to the weary social media posts and blog essays, people are having a hard time getting into the spirit of this thing we call Christmas.
About 20 years ago I started keeping track of the books I read in a book journal, usually a 5x7 hardcover lined notebook. It wasn’t a particularly elegant system - I simply listed the title and author of the book, using a separate page for each month. If the book was a particular favorite, I might jot an asterisk beside it; if it was the second (or third or fourth!) time I’d read it, I would note that too. At the end of each month, I totaled the number of books read during that time, and at the end of the year, I skimmed through the year’s reading and made a “favorites” list.
One can’t help noticing the irony of it, here in this season where cards and carols proclaim “Peace on Earth, Goodwill to Men,” that acts of violence and terror seem to abound both far and near. As fear, intolerance, and hatred breed a global culture of paranoia and hate, it’s sometimes difficult if not impossible to find the spirit of our Christian holiday.
This week I’ve been immersed in the latest installment of Louise Penny’s Three Pines series, books I love for many reasons, but perhaps mostly for the way they transport me to this place in the Eastern Townships of Quebec, this village nestled deep in a valley, marked by three tall pine trees that signify it as safe haven, a sanctuary.
Oh, do I need a Sanctuary.
My writing desk sits in the corner between two casement windows on the second floor of our home. When I look up and out the window in front of me, I sometimes feel like I’m in a tree-house, especially on summer days when the full branches of an ornamental cherry tree practically obscure my view. In winter, those same branches are bare of leaves, but filled with chattering finches, junco’s, sparrows, and cardinals, feasting on the dark red cherries that sustain them during the cold weather.
But this morning my view is hampered by gray wooly fog, a blanket of cotton laid over the horizon
In the process of all that downsizing, clutter busting, junk clearing, and reorganizing we did when we moved three years ago, I often asked myself whether an item was something that might one day be passed down to future generations. I asked it about china and paintings and collectible figurines. I asked it about Christmas ornaments and record albums and books. I asked it about jewelry and electronics and furniture.
Truthfully, very little made that cut.
