I’m sitting on the couch looking at a Fraser Fir, strung with small white and colored lights, branches bowed with ornaments old and not-old.
Did you know that if, at some point in your life and due to circumstances beyond your control, you find yourself no longer in possession of the ornaments you cherished and gathered over many years, it is possible to restock your ornament box from thrift stores and flea markets and garage sales?
And that you might find that you are capable of loving these new-old ornaments, most of which belonged to other people, people you don’t know, and which were originally hung in other living rooms, living rooms you never saw and which may or may not exist now?
I am here to tell you that it is possible. Many things are possible. There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.
It’s a quiet day here, made quieter by the three vertical feet of whiteness that has fallen in the past three weeks. Everything is hushed. The sky is as white as the snow, and everything is turning blue now, at dusk.
In the spirit of the season, here are a few offerings, all by others or gleaned from others.
One of my favorite blogs offers a thanks and, if you scroll down, a delightful tiny video that makes me happy whenever I click on it.
Another always-thoughtful blog offers small treasures in image and words.
For those of you who love snow, skiing and dogs, or maybe just dogs, click here for fifteen seconds of joy.
And finally, below, one of my favorite poems. Enjoy.
– Joseph Enzweiler
Because we wanted much that year
and had little. Because the winter phone
for days stayed silent that would call
our father back to work, and he
kept silent too with our mother,
fearfully proud before us.
Because I was young that morning
in gray light untouched on the rug
and our gifts were so few, propped
along the furniture, for a second
my heart fell, then saw how large
they made the spaces between them
to take the place of less. Because
the curtained sun rose brightly
on our discarded paper and the things
themselves, these forty years,
have grown too small to see, the emptiness
measured out remains the gift,
fills the whole room now, that whole year
out across the snowy lawn. Because
a drop of shame burned quietly
in the province of love. Because
we had little that year
and were given much.