Aught Not

The last day of 2009 dawned silent and white, with so many inches of fresh snow dusting the streets and catching on our rooftops view. After a late breakfast, I watched, unplanned, "Shadow of a Doubt" before giving in to the inevitable task of dismantling our Christmas tree. In one carefully packed box, I included a short note to myself. Folded and slipped between the ornaments, I'll come upon it one day next December, when I unpack our decorations to trim another tree, in another city, in another apartment. It will serve as a small reminder to my future self of how I'm feeling on this day, and what I'm hoping for and anticipating in the days that will pass between now and then.

Later tonight, Gus and I will honor a special tradition. One of us will slip a nondescript, black leather notebook from our bookshelf, and in it we will turn to a fresh page. After titling it "2009," a list will be made of that which we are most thankful for from this past year. The lists start out the same - our marriage, our health, our family and friends. Laughter, vacations, good meals we have shared. Included also, some things private, perhaps small but significant moments that have stood out over the course of the last twelve months. Once we reach the end of our list, or the end of the page, the notebook will be closed and returned to its place on the shelf, not to be opened again until this time next year, when what still awaits us will be remembered and recorded.

A happy and safe New Year to all!

The Year in Review

As is true most years, the week between Christmas and New Year's is a strange one. Six days caught between the past and future, without any pressing importance of its own, it hangs in the balance between what has happened and what it to come. It's stuck with being the inevitable letdown that follows the excitement of Christmas, but before the revelry of the year's end. Our tree still juts kindly into our living room, dry and and lonely without its buoy of gifts, while my Audrey Hepburn wall calendar, turned to its last page, itches to be recycled. Today I wrote 1-1-10 for the first time as I post-dated our rent check for the coming month. On the television and radio, Top Ten lists have been compiled for the last turn of the earth while predictions are made for the year that lies ahead.

The sentimental and silly part of me, despite everything, wants to hold onto the year behind, although I suppose it's mainly the Christmas tree I'm sorry to see go. Meanwhile, my inner sophisticate reaches for the year ahead and the splashy potential and flashy promise it holds. Inevitably the latter, I know, will win out. Plans have been made for New Year's Eve and Day, which include the dismantling of the tree, and 2009 becomes one more for the books.

This afternoon, I cracked open my new Moleskine calendar for 2010, transferring birthdays, holidays and other important dates to the fresh new year. I looked over what I had recorded of the last year and where I was at this time one year ago. It's been a long year -- a tumultuous one, as they all seem to be to my mind's eye. Not my best, and not my worst. At times I didn't think I would make it, but I did and here I am, staring down the year I've waited for for so long, it's seemed an enigma. The year that, now that it's upon us, I'm hoping will be one of my best and brightest, full of adventure, happiness, health, hope and wonder.

This Side of Paradise

For me, today always marks the beginning of the next chapter. I should say yesterday afternoon, since this is when the palpable shift begins. After the gifts have been opened and leftovers sufficiently picked over, my eyes draw away with some relief and exhaustion from the mood that has been building, in essence, since late October. Not even the bravest shoot is surfacing through the snow, yet I am drawn toward the shorter hemlines and longer days of spring. Unfortunately, the dark dullness of leftover winter still stands between those days and today, threatening to draw even the most spirited among us into its dank chill.

As with her biography of Edna St. Vincent Millay, I am entranced by my current read, Nancy Milford's exhaustive telling of the life of F. Scott's wife, Zelda Fitzgerald. I identify with the early days of their marriage, before it was marred by competitiveness (which I find strange inserted into a marriage), addiction and mental illness. Riding the wave of the Jazz Age, they spent countless hours talking and traveling, enjoying each other's company and their unique life together. They had many acquaintances and a few close friends, but preferred the companionship of each other over anything they could find outside their own home. The couple would stay up all night, remembering times in Paris or on the Riviera, their eyes bright with possibility. To paraphrase Zelda, she felt that she couldn't find the depth of conversation she had with Scott with other people, so wasn't terribly interested in the pursuit. Of course, I enjoy the company of a variety of people, but I also find such content and contentment in our own words, if these are all I have, I'm satisfied.

"I don't want to live. I want to love first, and live incidentally."

                                                                                  --Zelda Fitzgerald

"What'll we do with ourselves this afternoon? And the day after that, and the next thirty years?"

"Vitality shows in not only the ability to persist but the ability to start over."

"The extraordinary thing is not that people in a lifetime turn out worse or better than we had prophesied; particularly in America that is to be expected. The extraordinary thing is how people keep their levels, fulfill their promises, seem actually buoyed up by an inevitable destiny."

                                                                                 --F. Scott Fitzgerald

Eve/ning

In the earlier dusk, Gus and I walked gingerly across the ice to our church's early service. For two people not used to attending on this evening before Santa has long been in the air, we were unaware that this earliest time slot is firmly kid-oriented. Indeed, the pews were full, but primarily of "C & E's" and their typically ill-behaved children, treating the pews as if at the local Chuck-E-Cheese. It was nice, but definitely not an event to be repeated. Following worship, Gus told me of the crotchety old priest of his childhood, Father Castellano, who would stop his sermon, point his finger and demand fidgety children be removed to the quiet room before he would continue. Hmm...

But now, by gosh, by golly, it's time for mistletoe and holly! Tasty pheasants, Christmas presents, countrysides covered with snow. Our two well-dressed birds are roasting in the oven as we enjoy a glass of champagne and savory hors d'oeuvres. Despite the atmosphere of cheer and the celebrations at hand, admittedly, our small evening has been punctuated with bouts and waves of good old fashioned homesickness. I miss my traditions and my people, the warmth of familiarity and family. I'm not be a person who wants to miss out on the holiday happenings. Neither of us has ever celebrated Christmas alone, and likely and hopefully, won't again after this year. Indeed, next year at this time, all our troubles will be out of sight. But until then, I'm told to have myself a Merry little Christmas now.

La Carte

Leftover snow still rests on non-essential ground, and slick ice forms in low lying areas as slush melts and refreezes each day. In the city, shoveled parking spots are claimed with plastic lawn chair placeholders and dirty, bulldozed snow is piled eight feet high.

After work, Gus and I braved the bitter crowds and bitterer cold to collect ingredients for the ambitious twosome Christmas Eve dinner we have planned. We are still trying to decide between the three services offered by our church - our decision likely lies with where we are in terms of food preparation tomorrow evening. By a stroke of luck, Gus' clinical sight gave him tomorrow off (after all, who schedules surgery for Christmas Eve?) and, since I'm hoping to only work until noon, we should be able to start in early on the oven-centric festivities.

To start, the legacy of Mme Ponsardin will supply the champagne to accompany chicken-liver crostini and pickled herring with crackers. The fish, a Scandinavian tradition, is affectionately referred to as "fish candy" by my Uncle and will serve as a placeholder for my mom's delightful Lutefisk we will miss out on this year. (The tomte won't come if you don't eat your Lutefisk...) For the main course, Noirmoutier Potatoes with Fleur de Sel, Carmelized Brussels Sprouts and the grande dame, Roasted Pheasant Stuffed with Sage and Granny Smith Apples. The birds, currently marinating in sage, olive oil and Greek yogurt, were generously supplied to us by a colleague of Gus' who enjoys hunting the wilds of Pennsylvania in her spare time. To accompany, a taste of home from Adelsheim Vineyard, a 2007 "Elizabeth's Reserve" Pinot Noir from the Willamette Valley. For dessert, a Caramel Pear Terrine which required a shiny new Charlotte Mold, the purchase of which I was more than happy to oblige.

And so, with provisions unpacked and a last minute grocery list readied for Gus tomorrow, I have a few minutes to spend enjoying the tree and my latest read.

Merry Christmas Eve Eve!

_____________

My mind is unsettled. It dashes from one thought to the next, and will not settle on one long enough to form a paragraph or two to record.

I want to write something beautiful or profound or memorable, but try as I may, I find I cannot. Too many thoughts seem crowded together, without enough room for one to come forward and shine.

That's it. That's all I have today.

Snowed In

Today we are well and truly snowed in. The white stuff began to fall Friday night and increased in intensity throughout yesterday, finally tapering off early this morning. Our unofficial total? Somewhere between one and a half and two feet. Gusty winds blew flakes into every corner and crevasse - piling up in window sills and atop fences, even a tiny peak collected on top of our doorbell.

This morning, we had every intention of going to church and the children's Christmas pageant (really, we did) but I can't even open the back door to get outside! Given our landlord's penchant for avoiding all things maintenance related, I'm not holding my breath for a well equipped snow blower to show up on the scene any time soon. And so, for the time being anyway, another day spent holed up inside reading, crafting and baking.

Scenes from the storm and its aftermath:

 

And the fruits of my cabin-fevered labor:

 

 

TGIF

Today wasn't one of my best, a day long and cold and full of irritation, culminating in finding a three day shut off notice for the water in our building. This utility is not our financial responsibility but rather that of our irresponsible and flip landlord who suggested I "not worry about it" when I called to tell him about the notice.

But, I'm home now, safe and sound. The front stoop was stacked with packages and parcels filled with gifts sent from afar. I turned on the Christmas lights and arranged the added gifts under the tree. Gus will be home shortly to make a good, warm dinner. Best of all, a massive snow storm, nicknamed the Winter Wallop, threatens the mid-Atlantic, with predictions of up to a foot of snow to begin falling after midnight and possible blizzard conditions, meaning I can put off the very last of my Christmas shopping for another time and instead spend tomorrow baking and working on craft projects.

Noël

More than a few years ago, Gus surprised me with a week in Paris at Christmastime. In secret, he asked my boss for the time off, bought the plane tickets, booked a hotel and then, smartly, told me in time that I might pack my own suitcase for our winter getaway.

Unlike our previous visits to the City of Lights, sweating in the summer heat with all of humanity, that December it was though we had the city to ourselves. If other tourists were there, they were fewer and less conspicuous, having traded their Tevas and tube socks for parkas and long pants. We walked and ate our way through the city until our feet and stomachs ached. We admired the glittering window displays of Haussmann's boulevards and stumbled upon the medieval streets he spared, then tucked into a cozy bistro, its windows steamed with the broth of hearty pot au feu.

One evening, we crossed town to Notre Dame Cathedral to attend an Advent vespers service. A few visitors still milled about the entrance as we were handed a program and admitted behind a velvet rope to take our place among the other worshipers. The pew of smooth wood creaked as we sat, and we could feel its cold surface through our jeans.

As the service began, the incense ball swayed hypnotically, sending its fragrant offering high into the shadowy rafters above. Stone and mortar surrounded us, ancient and wise, heavy with the weight of countless prayers. Slender candles glowed in chapels around the cathedral's perimeter. Gus and I kneeled on worn velvet, shoulder to shoulder with the faithful French, and stumbled through unfamiliar words sung to familiar tunes. In that one hour we joined the thousands across seven centuries whose feet had rested on that same floor, people who came to hear the Good News and await the birth of Jesus in this spectacular setting.

When the service finished, and the organist began a breathy postlude, the ad hoc congregation silently filed out of church and scattered into the frosty December night. Today, that evening remains one of my most favorite and treasured Christmas memories.

Rainy Days and Sundays

After church, Gus and I braved the crowds and weather and headed to the mall to finish up our Christmas shopping. The sky and its clouds were so low and full of rain there was hardly room enough for us as we made our way across town. We thoroughly enjoyed one another's company, laughing, joking and teasing our way through store hopping and list checking. Gifts in hand, we returned to home against the driving rain, icicles frozen on cliffs along the highway like so many sinister grins. Safely inside, we made a nest of blankets and pillows underneath the tree to read, wrap and nap a quiet, cold Sunday afternoon away.

Cold Hands, Warm Heart

This morning, as I stepped off the train at 30th Street Station and into the stairwell, the rush of warm air was a relief from the wicked wind that whipped across the open-air platform. I joined a sea of people as we trooped down the stairs and into the main walkway of the station, the air too thick with the smell of bacon, doughnuts and coffee. People crisscrossed this way and that, en route to various destinations within the city and beyond. Cheery poinsettias lined the florist's stall and shoe shiners bantered their way through early morning customers. Police dogs smartly ignored the wafting delights to focus their noses on passing parcels and packs. Two massive Macy's advertisements were unfurled down walls, bracketing a stoic and sparkly Christmas tree.
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Today marks the end of a short but wonderful visit from my stepdad John. We enjoyed his company over dinners at Osteria and Butcher and Singer. It was wonderful to hear news of home firsthand and have a touch of familiarity. For me, a stepdad is a person that I didn't realize I needed before he arrived on the scene. Now, I can't imagine life without him. What a wonderful early Christmas gift his visit was!

Insurgence

For Christmas last year, something possessed me to ask for a serger, which I did then receive. Since December 2008, it has sat on my sewing table, stocky and strange, collecting dust and intimidating me. Over the past year I've looked at various sewing projects that require the use of a serger, but have always decided against them as I've been afraid to make the acquaintance of this strange sewing apparatus I so pined for.

And so, as the Christmas season again approached and I began work on various homemade gifts, I once again ran into the problem of needing to use the serger. There aren't many people that I'd take the plunge for, but my little sister is one of them and so, since I'm making her a (It's a secret! Plus, it hasn't turned out yet.), I gave up and gave in. I bought four spools of thread, watched the set-up video, threaded two needles and two...other things...and, giving the beast one last sideways glance, tried my hand at serging.

At this point I can't say the machine and I are the best of friends, in fact I'm taking a break because right about now I really hate the darn thing. In time, I'm sure I'll get there. When it and its operator are in sync, it's an amazing piece of machinery. The rest of the time, including at this moment, it's a Class A Disaster.

Snow on Snow

The dreary cloud that hung above my head and spoiled my attitude for the good part of a week finally dissipated yesterday. The return of my sunny disposition allowed me to enjoy tapas, sangria and many laughs with friends last night at Amada in Old City.

Despite my bright outlook, though, another cloudy system rolled in off the coast, this time to coat the entire east coast in a soft blanket of snow. What started as a few errant flakes early this morning has turned into a great snowstorm, quieting and softening the world as only snow can.

I'm happy to use the weather as an excuse to stay in, working on sewing projects, wrapping presents and, yes, listening to more Christmas music. In honor of the snow, the words to my favorite Christmas carol, "In the Bleak Midwinter." 

In the bleak midwinter, frosty wind made moan,

earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone;

snow had fallen, snow on snow, snow on snow,

in the bleak midwinter, long ago.

Heaven cannot hold him, nor earth sustain;

heaven and earth shall flee away when he comes to reign.

In the bleak midwinter a stable place sufficed

the Lord God Almighty, Jesus Christ.

What can I give him, poor as I am?

If I were a shepherd, I would bring a lamb;

if I were a Wise Man, I would do my part;

yet what I can I give him: give my heart.

I Wonder

The season of Advent is here, a time filled with anticipation and wonder as we await the Savior's birth and the good news it proclaims. A time of profound waiting -- experiencing and enjoying the journey toward Christmas, marked by the four Sundays that lead up to that joyous day. For me, already waiting on a good many things, it's a daunting task to be asked to patiently sit for another event. I have in place various countdowns and goals, and yet here is another I'm told to embrace with excitement and joy.

With Gus at his last evening clinical, it's just me tonight, impatient and idle, searching our bookshelves and the internet for an Advent devotion to inspire the missing wonder within me. But try as I might, nothing I find conveys the inspirational message I'm looking for.

Admittedly as a last resort, I turned directly to the source, to reread firsthand Luke's telling of the birth of Jesus. Here, the story of Mary, whom I was recently told was likely no older than thirteen at the time of her pregnancy. Imagine her fear and isolation, all she must have faced and considered as she neared the birth! Her anticipation and impatience, yes, but also a quiet faith of such strength and joy, unwavering in the face of a great unknown. My heart fills as I consider her circumstances and, finally, I feel a flicker of excitement for the season flutter within me.

And so this year, unexpectedly, it is Mary who has become the source of inspiration for my own Advent journey. An unwed, pregnant teenager from centuries ago an incredible example of patience and faith, joy and wonder.

"And Mary said: 

My soul glorified the Lord

and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior." (Luke 1:46-47)

"Where there is patience and humility;

there is neither anger nor vexation."

    --St. Francis of Assisi, Admonition 27

(Ob)noxious

Like fuzzy frost that dusted the morning grass, a bitter pill languishes, coating my tongue with cantankerous bile. Beneath clear skies, the dawn cold rose up to grip my toes and and heart, turning blue my pursed frown and drawing down my eyelids like a velvet sash, heavy and dark with dust and ash.

Waking to such a venemous mood as this, I did what any right-minded, red-blooded woman would and made myself a hair appointment. A little pampering never hurt anyone and, indeed, as the weighty hair fell, my spirit seemed to brighten, but only just. What follows, the results:

Loving my new 'do, but still trying to shake the pervasive toxicity.