Christmas 2011

The human experience is one way the Earth experiences herself, a friend told me.

If that is so, then the Christmas experience does not belong to us at all, but rather we belong to it.

Seda, the boys, and I are all home together this year with no intention of leaving. We go out only to walk the dog. Our outer story is sedate, predictable even. Inside my head and heart, there's a storm -- hot and cold fronts butting heads. The rain comes down in torrents when I least expect it, often before I can turn  away to hide the tears.

I did not focus on gift-giving this year. The kids knew this and did not expect much. They were already content with money they'd received from relatives when an unexpected windfall of gifts happened our way: a six foot by three foot wooden trunk of Lego, a basketball hoop and several games from a family up the street. Strangely, the family is in crisis, so the gift is bittersweet in the receiving. I bow to that with awe, appreciation, and love. My heart is again broken open.

The greatest gift I receive is an agreement that my children will be mentored by a young man I deeply respect. This gift is almost more than I can take in. It is one of the few things I've had trouble offering the boys in the way of support I think they need. I am thrilled.

I open a gift this morning of a necklace -- a talisman, really -- made by a friend. She crafted it for herself last year and now feels it should go on to me. It is intended to be a reminder of wholeness and courage in challenging times. I hold it in my hand until it envelopes my warmth. We hold each other.

At mid-day, I read aloud to Seda a chunk of Herman Hesse's novel, Siddhartha. To my surprise and delight, both children set aside the new Pokemon cards they have gifted each other and come to the table to listen. They sit rapt until the end of the reading. They do not discuss it with Seda and I beyond an observation that it was interesting, but when they wander away, they walk slowly and quietly watching the floor. Could I receive a sweeter gift?

We cuddle together and watch the movie "Elf." It is much more funny and heart-warming than I had expected it to be. I am touched by the music in it, too, and my face is streaked with tears when the credits roll.

Trinidad unwraps an unexpected gift from Hiawatha, a friend of Ken's who has adopted us beyond Ken's departure to Key West. Trinidad receives a plasma ball ("not a child's toy" warns Hiawatha) which he has always admired and wished for during the hours spent at H's parties. I am touched by the power of a relationship (mine and Ken's) to shape one's world, and even the world of one's children. Sam receives a glow-in-the-dark Science kit from H, and Trinidad wheels and deals until he is the one concocting glow-in-the-dark bouncy balls and light up jelly beads and stars well into the night.

I melt in the evening, prone in child's pose on the kitchen floor after a discussion with Seda about Jesus. She grieves that so much violence happens in his name. I agree, and still I am troubled that this holiday which was originally a solstice celebration now celebrates his birth -- a decision (including a likely fabricated birthdate) made by the church some time ago to redirect a pagan culture into Christianity. I doubt that Jesus would himself approve, and I am sad to think how many decisions like this made by Church hierarchy have brought confusion and suffering to our world. That aside, I appreciate the opportunity to pay my respects to Jesus Christ, and I make my peace with that alone tonight.

Forgiveness, I decide, is not usually a complete and singularly sweeping action. It is instead the calculated effort of lifting rocks and logs from the river flow of love through one's heart. It takes time, and the current changes course to navigate the obstacles that remain. I am removing them one by one. I am forgiving.

At nine p.m., I take a glass of red wine in a flask and the dog on a leash, and I walk to the park. I stand under a lamp post alone and sing Christmas carols until I can't feel my fingers anymore. I sing for my mother who wanted to go out and sing a few carols last year, only few days before her death. I hold the caroling book I compiled for her then. I know she would appreciate this: wine, dog, and song. A high note in "Silent Night" starts the neighborhood dogs barking, and I strike out for home with my breath curling in clouds around me.

It is more than I can fully integrate, this day, and I know it. My eyes burn with grief in celebration.