Let's Have a Look-See

 Last night I wrote about some of the ornaments that adorn my tree. I thought some pictures were called for.

Did I imagine my five-year-old self on that little balcony?






Don't EVER glue pretty paper onto ponytail holders... unless you need a good laugh at what you think is a good idea that turns out to be, well, dumb.  Tracy and I get a really good laugh every year when these come out of the box.

My dear friend Myriam got such a kick out of buying ornaments after a Jewish lifetime of not trimming Christmas trees. When my husband died, I found a story he'd written in which he imagined he was the wind. That fit him well, the freedom, seeing the world from above, the occasional mischief. One December Myr found a bagpipe ornament and thought that was perfect as a memorial to Lance as the wind. Sometime in transporting it, one of the pipes broke. She wondered if she should have it fixed. But being broken seemed a better fit.                                                                                                            

Living in the Adirondacks in the winter is not for wooses. My friend Jane Jenks epitomizes the self reliance Adirondackers learn. Pair this up with her artistic soul and you have someone who has never lost the "eyes of a child", is always learning and lives with joy. She made this little pack basket - I think it's missing little logs. I'll find some in the back yard.

I've known Danielle since she was 5 and now, as a young adult, she gives me beautiful ornaments. Love that.

And here's the clothespin Playboy Bunny by Lillian, my downstairs neighbor when I lived in an apartment in Glens Falls. What a hoot! The boobs are so low, I always wondered if she subconsciously glued them on where hers (and all of our) boobs end up at 80. I wish I'd spent more time talking to her but that was a time in my life when I was holding onto life's ledge with my fingernails, trying to make sense of life from the outside in instead of regaining my original self.

The little girl who gazed at a glittered house and saw magic.

Merry and joy to everyone.

Globs of Glittering Houses

Nearly every December since my early twenties, I've had a tree trimming party. Everyone invited was asked to bring an ornament. Now I'm 57 and I had to stop the ornament tradition as the trees just couldn't handle the ridiculous amount of ornaments I'd collected! You see, I don't buy those sturdy, stiff-branched commercial trees. I go out on my land and cut a tree that looks great in the woods, haul it home then frown at how puny it looks in my house. Then I laugh. The lack of branches actually allows you to see the ornaments better. This year I thought about trying to dig up the roots too, gradually bringing it indoors so it would survive the heat inside, then replanting it in the spring. Maybe next year. I know it's okay to cut down a tree in a populated forest because the trees around it often need some breathing room. Foresters have educated me.

Back to the ornaments. And why I love my tree so much. Every ornament on the tree has meaning. If I don't connect a memory to an ornament, it's a goner. I have my dear friend Kathy to thank for also remembering, especially all the ornaments SHE gave me. Cactus from Arizona, a telephone because we don't live close, ornaments from trips we took together. Her daughter began giving me ornaments, too, a beautiful fish, a jointed clown. I have an ancient fish that was my grandmother's, a red & green Star of David from Myriam who trimmed her first tree with me, the leather boot Jill made, the luscious fish from my brother, the clothespin droopy-boobed Playboy Bunny from my 80 year-old neighbor, Tracy's birch bark We-Know-Not canoe and the ridiculous collaged ponytail barrettes we made and thought we could sell. Needlepointed squares made by my late father and those from my mom that highlighted whatever was up in my life that year. Beth's pool table and a tree made of fused Mardi Gras beads, a project I did with 2nd graders when I was student teaching in New Orleans. There's Bill and Patty's maple syrup bottle, Dennis' turkey caller, the tap from a Genesee keg, Brenda's Red-Rum bear, Jane's handmade tiny pack basket, the God's Eye from the cook that was always chewing garlic. And so many more.

I have an ornament that was my favorite when I was a little girl. It was a little magical house that absolutely thrilled me. Ten years ago when I asked my father if I could have it, he said "Of course." I was so surprised when I saw it - a very plain cardboard house that happened to be covered in glitter with a couple of marker lines hinting at windows and a door. How jaded my vision has become! Picasso once said he spent his entire life trying to get back the eyes of a child. Boy, do I get that. So now when I look at this house, I can step briefly into the past, loving the feeling of how incredible that little glitter house looked to me as a child. Christmas through the eyes of a child - what magic.

So thank you to all of you who gave me ornaments over all these long years. My tree is a tribute to the magnificent friends and family I am so grateful to have. Ya know,  I have new friends and now I wish I'd asked them to bring an ornament. Next year. Better look for a bigger tree. In the woods, of course.

Letting Control Slide from my Hand

 So. What the heck was the gigunda lesson for me in 2011? (So many lessons, so little memory.)  It’s like choosing a favorite color. And that changes, then I always go back to Black (I love you Amy Winehouse, wherever you are now – everywhere?)  Black is the absence of color OR all colors, depending on which color mixing system you are abiding by. There goes THAT metaphor out the window.

Okay, back to my original thought. The lesson that popped into my head was around control. This freaked me out; since I pride myself on being a flexible, go with the flow kind of a gal. But I had an epiphany: anxiety that I have to manage dwells in that place between conjuring up a plan that is based on what I clearly want and seeing it manifest.  My working brain thinks if I do enough, keep after it, massage it, obsess over it, it will happen. Work, work, work. This is the only way. When did I get so dogmatic? 

Sometimes I need 2 or 3 or 5 two by fours to hit me in the head to learn a lesson.  Seems letting go is the biggie for me this year. Or, the ow-ie -hard-to-admit version: understanding I cannot control the outcome of the things I set in motion. I’d like to blame this on having lived through the worst thing I could imagine, losing my husband suddenly. Good excuse, eh?  Makes you want to control everything so that bad things won’t happen. But I know I’m fooling myself. This need to control goes back to the lesson I’m here to learn – trusting myself.  Trusting that whatever it is I’ve put my energy into is the best for me, not based on anyone else’s opinion. I’ve been weaning my way away from books and asking others about major decisions. Well, not completely. I still do “research”, but I learn more and more to trust my gut, elusive sometimes but lately I’ve had a few intuitive hits and I noticed!  I actually paid attention and acted on them before my analytical mind could talk me out of it. It felt good to be true to myself, knowing there’s always the possibility for misinterpretation. (There it is again, other people’s opinions.) I believe I can get better and better at noticing my gut as I learn to, dare I say it, trust myself.

Folks who seem to have a better grasp on their spiritual side appear to get the next piece: set it in motion then let it go and trust that the Universe/God/Spirit will take it from there. If it’s meant to be, it will happen. Trust. In something intangible.  Part of me is saying, “yeah, right.” That’s the part that wants to keep working on it, to keep controlling things. Trusting means that an idea that felt right that didn’t come to fruition didn’t ripen because it wasn’t the right time, place or thing for me to be doing right now. NOT because I’m a big fat loser who didn’t work hard enough.  THAT’S the lesson.

If I sound like I have it all figured out, believe you me, I am a constant wonderer. That’s why I take long walks in the woods. That’s where I think my plans through and often it feels like a conversation going on in my head. If there’s a sarcastic, common sense response to my mental queries, I know it’s my late husband popping in with his own two cents.  

I’ve already gained so much by letting go – the freedom to love another man, a feel for the okay-ness of imperfection and getting clearer on what I am not responsible for fixing. My biggest lesson of 2011 will be something to practice in 2012. And my favorite color right now is red-violet. The color of love with a bit of blues mixed in. Perfect.