I lit a candle in the dark morning hours and sat in silence with my nine year-old. We stayed in the quiet for only five minutes and then the day had to begin. My favorite part of the morning: the kids and I singing Looney Tunes words to the overture of Rossini’s Barber of Seville. Leftover drop biscuits held spoonfuls of homemade jam, or in some cases, small piles of Nutella.
finished piece
I finished crocheting my little blue bowl, then wet-felted it and blocked it to dry. Once it was dry I held it in my hands and considered it for a while. The curve inward at the top seemed very protective to me, like a nest. I picked up one of the many bird’s nests we keep around the house and slipped it inside the bowl. The two objects came together as if meant for one another. Tomorrow we will go to the woods and look for more discarded nests that are missing their woolen bowls.
boxing day 2012
The blue-grey light returned on Boxing Day, along with snow, sleet, rain, cold. I felt like I was back in central New York. I burned Nag Champa and played 80’s music in our warm kitchen. John fried cold slabs of leftover grits in the cast iron skillet, and I ate two of them with butter and my most favorite-est thing ever, Sriracha.
christmas day 2012
Pre-dawn whispers (I stuffed my head under a pillow and went back to sleep).
Presents opened before the eight o’clock hour.
Hot coffee from the Chemex.
Sweet, soft challah French toast eaten continental style by a bad piggie.
Organic, fresh-pressed juice to cut through the sweet.
Beautiful music streaming through the house.
Gentle, quiet focus on a new art.
christmas eve 2012
For the first time, my girl helped braid the challah, her small fingers gently moving the ropes and curling in ends. We used the knife as a chisel and popped chunks of Callebaut in our mouths while we worked.
The challah baked up quick. We left the hot loaf to cool on a wire rack and drove to church, where I sat on the edge of my seat as our pastor hit all the high notes in O Holy Night. Once home I sat in my bent wood chair under my mother’s cable-knit afghan and stared at the lights on the tree.
prayer
The older men always doze on the evening bus ride back to suburbia. Their heads nod in unison, lowering to their chests, and with each pneumatic sighing press of the brakes, their heads flick upright, as if mounted on hinges, and so they nod their agreement that, yes, their days are numbered.