60 words
Dear Holidailies,
I’m hell bent on following through with you. Regardless of how sleepy I am (even though it’s only 8:54pm), despite all the disorganized ideas turning in my mind, even though I have no desire to say anything to the world-at-large in this very moment, I am posting today. Fifty words is all you require. This makes 60.
Goodnight.
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“Holidailies participants solemnly vow to update their Web sites daily from Dec. 7 to Jan. 6. . . . “ Day 24.
Short lived idea …. next?
Last night we tucked ourselves into bed early and put on “Julie & Julia”. I proceeded to seethe with blog envy. I know, it’s ridiculous. I’m perfectly aware that there’s no limit to the amount of success & good fortune in the world; the accomplishments of others in no way prohibit me from doing the work it will take to fulfill my dreams. So there was no reason for me to wish a pox on Julie Powell’s house during that answering machine scene when – not only is she basking in the warm love of wedded bliss – she’s getting served with about 37 invitations to write for money.
The movie got me fantasizing about my own my blog project, modeled after my newest object of admiration and inspiration: Ruth & Snoop.
Inner City legend provides a frustrated unemployed office worker with a new blueprint for life in Ruth & Snoop, the true stories of how Felicia “Snoop” Pearson’s memoir and rap sheet inspired fledgling writer Ruth to whip up 97 capers in 365 days.
Andy made me promise I won’t really attempt it. I don’t have what it takes anyway. Unless I broke it down into smaller tasks. I guess the first step would be learning to fight. I could take some self defense, boxing and karate lessons. Hmmm; there is a martial arts academy down the street.
Okay, I just checked it out. Not appealing; I don’t want to dis management over at AMMS or anything, but let’s just say the aesthetic of the website did nothing to pull me in. My vibes are saying end of the line. Besides, fighting like Felicia Pearson is not a skill that can be taught. It’s more special than that. I better get a new fantasy.
Seriously though, how did Julie Powell avoid getting fat that year of mastering French cooking? She got a writing deal and kept her figure?
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“Holidailies participants solemnly vow to update their Web sites daily from Dec. 7 to Jan. 6. . . . “ Day 23.
Recommended Reading
The minute Felicia “Snoop” Pearson’s character, Snoop, appeared on The Wire, we couldn’t take our eyes off her. Chris and Snoop would enter a scene, something awful would happen (notice me not giving spoilers, you’re welcome) and hours later, away from the TV, Andy or I would say to each other, “God, I just love Chris and Snoop.” We had whole conversations about feeling warmly towards them. It seemed inexplicable but it wasn’t really. That’s the magic of The Wire. The Wire shows you how, if you look at people the right way, everyone has got a core that deserves love. Andy would articulate it differently but that’s how I see it.
Felicia “Snoop” Pearson describes the love thing well in her life (so-far) story when she talks about grace.
Yes, it’s true – I read a book! I read a whole book!
The embarrassing truth about my love of books is that for all the collecting and adoring I do of them, it’s a rare day when I actually finish reading one. I was that English minor in school who could write a decent paper about a book I hadn’t fully read. I once scored 100% on a quiz on Catch 22 in college; absolute dumb luck. It’s not that I didn’t enjoy reading, or that I never finished what I started but when I did read whole books, they weren’t war stories.
My problem these days is that I dabble. I’m usually in the middle of about five books at once. Recently, I’ve tried disciplining myself to only having one read-in-progress at a time and that has helped.
So today, I finished one of my Christmas gifts: Grace After Midnight by Felicia “Snoop” Pearson (with David Ritz). What an inspiring story. If you love memoir, if you love The Wire, if you love people telling difficult truths, if you’re interested in faith or survival or both – read this book.
Part of the reason why I love Snoop’s story is that at the heart of it, when she describes a particular moment of grace in her life, it reminds me of what I was trying to describe in my post about the surge of goodness that I feel sometimes. Reading her story inspires me to continue trying to talk and write about it – the magic, the grace, the love. Reading her story further validates my feeling that it’s real, that indescribable thing that a lot of people call God’s overwhelming love is really real.
Whether or not she ever graces my blog with her presence, I want to make this public: I wish Felicia “Snoop” Pearson all of the goodness the heavens and earth can offer up.
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“Holidailies participants solemnly vow to update their Web sites daily from Dec. 7 to Jan. 6. . . . “ Day 22.
Sweetness
Still taking a bit of vacation from writing of any sort, so I’m offering my Holidailies crew this awfully sweet photograph of Mary and Bob. New comers, yeah, this blog is named after these two.
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“Holidailies participants solemnly vow to update their Web sites daily from Dec. 7 to Jan. 6. . . . “ Day 21.
So Grateful
Another quickie to fulfill Holidailies. I was thoroughly spoiled yesterday. Among my delights, this sweet painting arrived.
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“Holidailies participants solemnly vow to update their Web sites daily from Dec. 7 to Jan. 6. . . . “ Day 20.
Good Day
Are you ever afraid you’re going to reach your joy quota? The day before yesterday I started feeling flashes of heaven-like happiness. Then yesterday, the blocks of bliss just got longer and longer and started running together, until today, when I feel like my total minutes of gladness must exceed the limit that one person is allowed to have in any given lifetime.
To sit here and give you the specifics would pull me out of the action. So, in order fulfill my holidailies promise, I’ll leave you with a frame from the iChat I had with my family this morning. Mom was holding up her dancing dog and letting it perform for me. I added the bubble caption to kindly hide the folks who have not consented to appearing on the world wide web. You can see my pop’s little face in the backgound there; I don’t think he’ll mind.
Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night.
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“Holidailies participants solemnly vow to update their Web sites daily from Dec. 7 to Jan. 6. . . . “ Day 19.
Standing up
I’m on the fence about telling you what I did yesterday.
Other Ruth: Do you want to edit out that cliche?
Ruth: I don’t know, this is the way I talk.
OR: You’re not talking, you’re writing. Perhaps, “I’m having trouble deciding whether or not to tell you what I did yesterday” would be better. You know, to avoid, being cliche.
R: It’s not the right voice, though.
OR: Whatever, it’s your post.
R: Where was I? . . .
I’m on the fence about telling you what I did yesterday. One side of the fence is my Grandma’s camp. Total WASP humility. One should do good works, give generously and keep it on the down low – just like that Bible verse. I think it was a Bible verse, I’m not even really sure because it wasn’t quoted or anything around the house. I just know that the concept of maintaining all forms of modesty — at all costs — flowed hard from my maternal ancestry. Familial moral codes are weird, too, because I don’t even remember this value being pushed with the spoken word (except that one time; I’ll spare you today). Come to think of it, the ethic must have been modeled. I learned from what wasn’t done, from what wasn’t said.
The other side of the fence is my belief that when we let people know what we’re up to, we might actually encourage them to follow suit.
Other Ruth: Bridge cliche now?
Ruth: It’s a common figure of speech.
OR: If you want to be common.
Anyone who knows me knows that I do an okay job of beating out my heritage on this front. That is to say, I usually share openly about whatever it is that I’m up to. I just get so excited, I can’t resist sharing. So I’m going to tell you.
Other Ruth (eyes rolling): Surprise. Surprise.
I had an incredibly great day yesterday. You know how some days, you get it right? You budget your time to include enough of most important elements to be fulfilling? Well, short of getting some low impact cardio, yesterday was like that for me. I think it’s because rather that starting the day harvesting my imaginary artichoke crops at Farmville, I showered and drove to Common Ground (awesome place!) in Santa Monica where I helped bag groceries.
Now, I’m not saying this to be all self-congratulatory. I mean, I have a friend who has been quietly doing this for years. I have another friend who has spent Saturdays (for nearly a decade!) working at a food bank out in the valley. I bet half of you reading this probably do regular philanthropic activity. The reason why I’m broadcasting my one hour of unpaid labor is because I’m so grateful.
No, really. It’s such a privilege to be invited into new places and to be made welcome and to feel useful. If all I ever did in life was earn money, surf the net and spend money, I’d rot from the inside out.
Other Ruth (mid sigh): Cliche . . .
Yesterday reminded me that one key factor in my future happiness is going to be making regular service a priority. I’m not talking about fund raising and writing checks. I’m talking about going out into the world and working elbow to elbow with people. I’m not fooling myself into thinking this is selfless; no, it’s a selfish attempt at wholeness. And there’s no shame in that.
Because I’ll tell you something, while I was there counting out jars of peanut butter and bagging cans of pineapple, Other Ruth was silent.
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“Holidailies participants solemnly vow to update their Web sites daily from Dec. 7 to Jan. 6. . . . “ Day 18.
La La Christmas
I started panicking on Monday. There was no sign of Christmas anywhere in our home except for the pile of unanswered greeting cards. This is only my second Christmas in Los Angeles. For fourteen of the last fifteen years, I’ve flown back to Maryland where all the staples & accoutrement of the holiday are waiting for me.
It occurred to me as a matter of urgency – maybe we should just scramble and make it happen: tree, lights, decadent food, stockings all hung by the chimney, etc.
So on my way to the store to gather all those things I try not to drink & eat regularly: egg nog and brie and candied nuts and the makings for blueberry pancakes and sugar cookies and champagne for mimosas, I stopped by a tree lot. This lot:
It was unusually warm at sunset. Windy. And, yeah, those are palm trees in the background. Palm. Trees. All my friends & family back east have just had an amazingly romantic winter wonderland of a snow storm. What do I have to get myself in the mood for the festivities? Warm weather and palm tress bending in the windy distance. It ought to be needless to say: I totally lost my urge to buy a tree.
Until today. When I encountered this:
Urban Outfitters, I love you.
So now I’ve got a tree (we’ll add the star or angel to the top tonight after dinner):
And it goes perfectly with my folk art nativity:
We’re ready.
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“Holidailies participants solemnly vow to update their Web sites daily from Dec. 7 to Jan. 6. . . . “ Day 17.
Patience, Please
Our machines are telling us to be patient:
“Patience, please, the application is loading; this may take up to 20 seconds.”
I’ve often wondered what type of human beings are being shaped from our current array of technological tools. I mean, what kind of person has to be told to “have patience” for 20 seconds?
I know it’s all relative — under certain circumstances, 20 seconds can seem like a lifetime. But I’m talking about the internet here — the time it takes for an application to load so I can play a game on my computer. In fact, I’m sitting in my pajamas and fuzzy slippers; I’m warm and dry, drinking my toasty herbal tea which, incidentally, is always the perfect temperature because I’ve got a magical box that will heat any liquid in just 20 seconds. I’ll add that I don’t have to walk anywhere to pick up the water and haul it back home; I don’t have to grow the herbs and dry them out to make the tea. No, I basically have hot tea available whenever I want.
When we (yeah, I’m dragging you into this now) see the message “the application is loading” it’s not as if we’re undergoing a medical procedure that involves 20 seconds of pain or even strong discomfort. It’s not as if we’re being forced to endure an earthquake for 20 seconds. No, we’re hanging out enjoying a luxurious existence that includes comforts unavailable to 99.9999% of all other beings that came before us.
Yet, invariably, I find myself wondering, “20 seconds!? What is wrong with the connection today?” It’s so easy to forget that a rapidly growing catalogue of information, music and video is available at a previously thought of as magical rate. I feel like seeing Martin Luther King, Jr. deliver one of the most meaningful speeches in all of history. What??! 20 seconds to download?!
Since when did dissatisfaction at miracles become the norm?
In researching this post, I came across a fascinating educational site that offers the following exercise:
- Draw a diagram showing how the water you drink gets to you.
- Examine a one-litre container. List the things you could do with this amount of water.
- Estimate and time how long it takes to fill a bucket with water using the one-litre container filled from a tap.
- Try carrying the bucket 100 metres (328 feet).
- Calculate how long it would take to carry the bucket 1 kilometre.
- Calculate how many buckets it would take to carry the amount of water you use each day.
I’m going to step away from this computer, close my eyes and breathe deeply for at least 20 seconds.
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“Holidailies participants solemnly vow to update their Web sites daily from Dec. 7 to Jan. 6. . . . “ Day 16.
First Snow
If I had my very own personal Ghost of Christmas Past, there is one night I would love to revisit: the night my family helped two men from across the world settle into their new home in the U.S.. Nearly all of the pertinent details have escaped me. How old was I? 10? 11? I can’t even remember, for sure, what country they were from – Vietnam? Cambodia? I’m particularly sad that I’ve lost their names. It seems to me that they were one syllable each–Sa’ng? Thu?
I do recall vague images of the newly rented, nearly empty apartment. It was so cold that night that I waited inside and tried to stay out of the way while the adults from my mom and dad’s church committee brought boxes up from their cars. Only essentials had been donated – beds, canned goods, cooking supplies, linens, toiletries.
I knew somehow – perhaps from the pot luck dinner the night before – that Sa’ng and Thu liked the Bee Gees. They spoke hardly any English, so I’m not sure how I got this information, but I did. One of the American adults had joked (I don’t think he meant any harm) that our new neighbors probably didn’t really know the Bee Gees’ music as much as they felt able to pronounce the name correctly. That didn’t fly with me. Surely, every one in the world knew Saturday Night Fever. Besides, I could tell by the look in Sa’ng’s eyes when he said, “Yes, Bee Gees, I like,” that he was being sincere.
That night, when there was a pause in the flurry of activity, I brought out my offering for the apartment. It was used – taken right off my bedroom wall that afternoon. My Bee Gees poster. It wasn’t really a sacrifice; the truth is I probably needed to make room for David Lee Roth.
I wish I could say that I remember the moment when we put scotch tape on the four corners and Thu hung the Gibb brothers high up on his new dining room wall. I wish I could say we had a turn table and that we all danced to “Stayin’ Alive” – the whole song. But if I told you any of that I’d be inventing.
What I can say, for sure, is that it snowed that night. We were walking through the parking lot to our car when it started. As soon as we noticed the flakes, someone must have run back up the stairs and knocked on the door asking Sa’ng and Thu to hurry, “Come outside”. They had never seen snow before.
At that moment, I didn’t have any idea, really, what a wonderful thing my parents and their church friends were doing. I didn’t know that there was ever such a thing as the Vietnam War or the Khmer Rouge. I had barely just learned the word refugee.
But I did know that something special was happening. We stood there in the darkness looking up at the white coming down. I remember trying to imagine what it would be like to be seeing it for the first time. “Snow?” “Yes. Snow. This is snow!”
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“Holidailies participants solemnly vow to update their Web sites daily from Dec. 7 to Jan. 6. . . . “ Day 15.
12th Time’s the Charm
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“Holidailies participants solemnly vow to update their Web sites daily from Dec. 7 to Jan. 6. . . . “ Day 14
“Unless they some smart-ass pawns”
I’ve become like a bad babysitter of Holidailies, “Ruthie’s got stuff to do, kiddos. Sit and watch this video; I’ll be back tomorrow.”
Seriously, I can’t tell you how happy I am that Andy cycled The Wire back on to our Netflix queue. To make matters even better, his dad recommended Terry Gross’ NPR interviews on Fresh Air with a ton of ‘Wire creators, including this one I listened to while sorting the laundry the other day. It’s weeks like this one that I’m so grateful for the internet to be able to access this stuff.
If I had to name one reason why I love The Wire, it would be this: ultimately, if you watch long enough, everyone is lovable. Some people are easier to love than others–Andy and I find the drug dealers to be 100% charismatic. In Season One, some of the police (I’m leaving off the word “officers” since this is Bal-more) – especially those in higher ranks – seem impossible to like but you get five years with them. Sooner or later, the omniscient view of The Wire (coupled with the intelligence and sensitivity of the its creators) gives you reasons to love all of the characters.
In the scene below, D’Angelo Barksdale, heir to his Uncle’s organized crime syndicate, has encountered two of his foot soldiers playing checkers with chess pieces.
Chess Lesson
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“Holidailies participants solemnly vow to update their Web sites daily from Dec. 7 to Jan. 6. . . . “ Day 13: 13 for 13!
More than funukkah
I’m not feeling the Hanukkah thing. Maybe that’s because I’m new at it. Come to think of it, I can’t say I’m really feeling the Christmas thing this year, either. Oh, except for the caroling on Sunday, that was special . . . sort of euphoric, really. I might say it even transcended my notion of “Holiday Spirit”. Besides the caroling, though, I’m having trouble getting my ho-ho-ho on. Are my expectations too high?
What the heck is holiday spirit, anyway? We go through these traditions: hanging lights, sending cards, buying gifts and wrapping them — for what? I think a majority of people do it for their children–for fun, or possibly an annual break in an otherwise mundane routine. Maybe we do it for an opportunity to demonstrate generosity, or for the chance to gather with family, or for a religious experience. Or maybe all of the above. But how do those reasons translate into the intangible “holiday spirit”?
There are those who would say that the holidays are the times when they feel most in touch with God. Others would say they practice the holiday customs to try and find God. Like this one friend I have, she told me once that she was dedicated to practicing weekly Jewish traditions as best as she could in order to eventually be able to feel a sense of the divine. Or at least, that’s how I interpreted what she told me. I have an admiration for her perseverance. The truth is that I, on the other hand, would never continue returning to my religious traditions if it weren’t for the buzz.
Yeah, for me, there is sometimes a buzz: an inexplicable surge of goodness, a palpable wave of joy. It’s been happening my whole life. Often times, I feel it when I’m out in nature – on the hiking trail, looking up at a tree, being present with a single leaf. The sensation was immense when I arrived at the red rocks of Sedona. And I felt it overwhelmingly when I was confirmed at the age of 13. It’s hard to describe or explain but I know it’s associated with my idea of a god.
Granted, I don’t feel it around generalized religious concepts. I find the vocally politicized “Christian” culture in America to be repulsive. In fact, I rarely reveal my involvement in a religious community because it’s hard to find a quick way to tell people, “My church is different. It’s filled with smart, compassionate, generous, loving, welcoming, rather cool and, for the most part, awesome people.” Sounds like a sales pitch, right? So I avoid it. Needless to say, I’m still figuring out how to resolve my self-identification as a church-goer.
Nonetheless, I cannot deny the buzz. Am I asking for too much to want that thing called “Holiday Spirit” to match it? That surge of goodness. If “Holiday Spirit” means anything, shouldn’t it mean a bliss, the bliss associated with being in the presence of something holy?
I’m willing to question it: this feeling. Perhaps it comes from just the right combination of caffeine and sunlight; a biological phenomenon — the body’s response to specific stimuli. And we can’t discount geological forces; after all, the Sedona red rocks are clustered around “ancient vortexes”, right? Or maybe sensations of ecstasy come from subconscious contact with aliens in another galaxy. No doubt there are hundreds if not thousands of explanations that I have not explored. Still, I’m most apt to think these feelings really have something to do with god. The one God – of everyone and all religions.
I’ll be the first to admit that the only reason I believe in this God is because I was taught to from a very early age. Further, my belief is Christian-flavored because that’s my familial context. My parents put up the tree in December and took us to a place on Sundays where people talked about Jesus. They prayed to something that sounded like a blend of Superman, Jimmy Stewart and Santa Claus, what’s not to like? Some Sundays, Dad gave me his keys to our nearly new 1979 Sedan DeVille so I could sneak out before the really boring part and play Limousine Passenger until the service was over. After that, we always went to the club for brunch. That meant all you can eat french toast and all you can drink grape juice. Believing had its rewards.
I have no trouble accepting that I’ve been psychologically programmed to have a belief in a benevolent god. I’m predisposed to experiencing religious faith. At the risk of sounding patronizing, I feel sorry for the people who aren’t. Sure, there are other ways to see this–that faith is a sign of psychosis or inferior intelligence, that faith is a gift from God, that faith is something we’re supposed to try to pass along, that faith is dangerous, etc.
Now that I think about it, I see a benefit to the absence of holiday spirit I’m feeling this year. It’s given me this opportunity to explore the whole point of my so called faith. Believing in God doesn’t start with buying and wrapping gifts nor does it it have anything to do with lighting candles and saying ancient prayers. It’s not about how I label myself or even whether or not I’m feeling “the buzz”. It’s actually much more basic than that.
It’s about what I do each and every time I interact with another human being. Do I express love?
I fail a lot. But that’s for another post.
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This post selected by a panel of readers for “Best of Holidialies ‘09“.
Thanks, Chip & Jette!
“Holidailies participants solemnly vow to update their Web sites daily from Dec. 7 to Jan. 6. . . . “ Day 12.
Writing for 7 hours today is not an option
- Clean litter box
- Perform job search tasks & update job search diary for Big Brother EDD
- Harvest Crops at Farmville
- Laundry
- Online Banking
- First Draft of Sun Magazine Readers Write Submission
- Walk mail to box half mile away (doubles as exercise)
- Vacuum
- Continue creation of holiday gifts (details withheld: surprise!)
- Holidailies Blog Post
So much to do, so I’m offering this tidbit rather than anything remotely resembling an essay. This month, Andy and I began rewatching our beloved series, The Wire. Episode #2 has this gem which reminds me why I love this show so very much. Enjoy:
The Wire: Chicken McNuggets
Now, I best get on with my clownie-ass chores.
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“Holidailies participants solemnly vow to update their Web sites daily from Dec. 7 to Jan. 6. . . . “ Day 11 – onward.
Four Star Masochistic Chic Flick
Some movies push you down and then start kicking you about the face and spine before stomping on your bones and . . . well, I’ll stop there.
This movie didn’t feel that way to me. Instead, I felt lifted up before my chest cavity was plunged into and my heart twisted out. But I like Precious (the title character); at one point I accidentally said out loud in the theater, “Get out, Precious, you can do it.”
I’m now seeing that Mo’Nique just got a Golden Globe nomination for Best Supporting Actress; happy to hear that, after being awe inspired by her monologue towards the end of the movie.
While the topic is fresh on my mind, I think I’ll see if I can send a little cash to my local women’s shelter. Gosh, they take PAYPAL. It doesn’t get much easier than that.
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“Holidailies participants solemnly vow to update their Web sites daily from Dec. 7 to Jan. 6. . . . “ Day 10 – wow, I blogged 10 days in a row!
How goy is this?
I’m doing Hanukkah all wrong. Skipping nights, blowing out candles, heating up frozen store bought latkes from a bag and serving them with egg nog.
I said to Andy this morning, “Your people have stamina.” Understatement of the last 15 millennia. It’s just that eight nights is a lot of nights in a row to have a whole ritual, don’t you think?
The last time we lit the candles, Sunday night, I read the prayers in English from “Judiasm 101″ (www.jewfaq.org) on my iPhone. Lily heard my voice and came over to see what was happening. When I said, “Say Amen, Lily.” She did, “Meow.”
In retrospect, I think she saw the flames and wondered if it might be her birthday. I guess we’ve kind of sent a precedent for that over the years.
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“Holidailies participants solemnly vow to update their Web sites daily from Dec. 7 to Jan. 6. . . . “ Day 9 – Amen Meow.
Holy Night
Go to almost any shopping mall and you’ll see them–those Glee-graduate carolers dressed in Dickens’ wear offering up near perfect harmonies. They’ve got their lyrics memorized and although they may not have made it on Broadway, they made it into the community chorus (which is far more competitive than you might imagine).
That wasn’t us.
And we weren’t singing at a shopping mall either. I believe they’re self-referentially known as Entertainment Destinations. The biggest and brightest offer the most materialistic slathering of iconic Christmas imagery known to Western man. The writer in me is saying, “Use your words Ruth, use your words,” but heck – if you follow this link and look to the lower right for the Cadillac sponsored “Watch The Tree Come To Life” video – and click on that, you’ll get a big mouthful of all the holiday magic money can buy. (There; now I’ve sponsored Cadillac, too.) Nothing says “Christmas” quite like mass retail; no better place to partake of the festivities than the mall.
We weren’t there.
We were a random gathering of people with one guitar and about 50 song books. We divided our time between the local V.A., centers for people recovering from addiction, and a convalescent hospital. I can’t remember the last time I had so much fun. It wasn’t merely a good time. It was transformative.
I learned that the music that makes me want to carry weapons when I’m peeking over the sale rack at Coach and still consider the prices to be too high, the music that I avoid singing publicly because the last thing I ever want to do is push my faith on anyone, the music that can make any wait in any line of any sort seem like a bad day at the DMV, that music, I learned that in the right context, that music really is miraculous.
I don’t even know why this came as a surprise to me. Years ago, I found that having practiced some basic Buddhist meditative exercises, suddenly some of the old fashioned Christian hymn lyrics starting making a lot more sense. It’s no wonder, really, when you believe that everyone (from all places and points in history) who tries to communicate about an authentic experience of the divine is trying to describe the same thing, someone was bound to have done a good job at it.
I think it just takes hearing the songs with a new ear. And hearing them in the right places.
Like being at the nursing home last night. Singing our way through the hallway, we paused outside of one woman’s room. All I saw of her was her blanket covered feet at the end of the bed. She had a toe tap going, offering silent percussion. It was the first time I’ve ever sang, “tidings of comfort and joy,” and meant it.
Earlier, in the crowded dining hall at the addiction recovery center, the men were so welcoming – warm, really. I made sure to hold my book low and keep eye contact with as many people around me as I could. Almost everyone sang along to every tune. Despite all the laughter, I never got the sense that we were being laughed at. It wasn’t a show as much as a mutual serenade. A-sing-along.
Every pause between carols brought cheerful hollers of song titles. It wasn’t all Rudolphs, Frostys and Jingle Bells, either. Surprisingly, over half of the requests were for the more religious carols. Imagine Hell’s Angels calling out for “Joy to the World”; Public Enemy-looking-guys yelling, “Away in a Manger.”
During, “Oh Holy Night,” when we got to the last half of the fourth line, “. . . the soul felt its worth,” I felt an unexpected surge of emotion rise up over my chest. Pushing it back down took effort.
O holy night, the stars are brightly shining
It is the night of the dear Savior’s birth.
Long lay the world in sin and error pining,
’til He appeared and the soul felt its worth.
The soul felt its worth. Could I? Could I ever learn to even identify, let alone feel, my worth? The man, eight feet away, holding his song book just like he might have back in 2nd grade, looking every bit as happy as a seven year old anticipating Santa’s arrival, could he? Could he feel his own worth? The dozens of men around him, resolved to twelve step meetings every day for the indefinite future, could they feel their worth?
I’m not talking about the billions of galaxies in the universe sense of worth, or the trillions of years in eternity kind either. I’m talking about the worth of being someone’s baby boy, or someone’s father. The worth of looking at a stranger across a room and smiling for just one second. I’m talking about a sense of worthiness.
The soul felt its worth. I sang that line and I wanted it. I wanted a sense of worthiness for myself and for each person in that room: our guitar player, and her grand nieces, the Public Enemy-looking-guys and their temporary roommates. I wanted it for the woman with her tapping toe in the convalescent home, and for each and every person in any V.A. across the planet today or tomorrow or next year. I wanted it for the Dickens-dressed sextets singing in the damn awful shopping centers all over the country, and I sure as hell wanted it for the shoppers, too. Because one thing I know for certain is that it can’t be bought.
We sang on, “A thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices,” . . . And that’s when the transformation really happened. My want turned into hope. Not quite a “thrill”, but hope, nonetheless. It was like being inside of the happy climax to a melodramatic movie.
Only this was real life: these men were surviving and healing and singing. I was surviving and healing and singing. Our songs were new and glorious. Divine.
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This post selected by a panel of readers for “Best of Holidialies ‘09“.
Thanks, Chip & Jette!
“Holidailies participants solemnly vow to update their Web sites daily from Dec. 7 to Jan. 6. . . . “ Day 8.
Empty rooms and imaginary disorders
Once I snuck into an abandoned home weeks before it was torn down. I still remember creeping under the fence, keeping a look out for neighbors, listening for squatters, not wanting to surprise or threaten anyone. It was dusk, so the interior was dark enough to make me wish I had brought a flashlight. I just took a walk through; let myself hear the floor boards and wondered about who the building’s first occupants might have been. When was the place new? 1946? I loved being in there. I loved feeling my heart racing. I made myself walk into every room and closet both upstairs and on the main floor. But I couldn’t work up the nerve to go into the basement.
Now there are condos on that lot. Brand new modern gorgeous condos. I toured one of the places when they were up for sale. I walked through each room acting as if I might actually sign the papers, “What’s the square footage again?”
On Friday, I got to shower in one of the vacant, newly remodeled units in our building. It wasn’t really as exotic as one might imagine–not the apartment dweller’s version of skinny dipping in the neighbor’s pool or anything. But it was an experience nonetheless. My particular place had a plumbing problem, and so the property manager asked that I not use our water.
“Linda, I haven’t bathed in 72 hours; I hate to admit that, but I really need to shower to make a lunch date.”
“Well, you can go into #504.”
“When is the plumber com–I’m sorry, did you just say . . . ? I didn’t hear what you just said.”
“You can use the shower in number five-oh-four.”
“I really don’t feel comfortable bathing in a vacant property.”
“Just double bolt the door and I’ll lend you a whistle; I’ll be right next door. I’ll be able to hear you.”
So I did it. I locked myself into # 504, I closed the blinds, closed the bedroom door, and the bathroom door and took a shower.
I had to be quick about it; there wasn’t time to linger. But in every one of those few minutes, I couldn’t help but feel that I was having a bit of an adventure.
I’ve pretty much given up on writing fiction in recent years; it’s too difficult. Today, though, thinking about the little morbid explorer in me, imagining if she were a real person, envisioning of all the ways she might exercise her compulsion . . . that girl might just lead me to a story.
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“Holidailies participants solemnly vow to update their Web sites daily from Dec. 7 to Jan. 6. . . . “ Day 7.
Blogligation
Sunset from 2005 – Santa Fe, NM.
Holidailies satisfied.
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“Holidailies participants solemnly vow to update their Web sites daily from Dec. 7 to Jan. 6. . . . “ Day 6 – pressed for time.
Tradition
The year my niece was born, at Christmas, I gave her a silver bell with the year engraved on it. I imagined giving her a bell each year until she turned 18. Then when she became an adult and had her own Christmas tree she’d have 18 silver bells with which to start her ornament collection.
A few years later, my nephew came along. I decided I must not be gender biased, and so he began receiving bells as well.
By the time my nephew turned five, the kids were on to the whole bell routine and my satisfaction as the gift-giver hit a bit of a low. It wasn’t as if the bells were ever their “real” present from me anyway. I was a pro. I brought Thomas the Train into that house; it subsequently became a years long obsession for my nephew. I introduced Wizard of Oz to my niece, complete with her own Dorothy dress, ruby slippers, picnic basket and Toto. By comparison, the bells seemed to be sort of an unappreciated hassle.
When I checked in with my brother (the kids’ dad) about this, he said, “Ruth, those bells are special. Eliminate all of the other gifts, but if you do anything, stick with the bells.” It was good advice. I can always count on him for wisdom.
So I kept it up. This morning, I ordered bells # 27 and 28 for the family tree. At 15, my niece is receiving her 16th bell; my 11 year old nephew will now have 12 in his collection.
I won’t be seeing them or the bells or the tree in person this year. This is the 2nd time in their lives that I’m celebrating in Los Angeles instead. Time to start a tradition for my west coast home. For one thing, we’ll be lighting the hanukkiah tonight. Andy still remembers how to say the prayers. Yeah, leave it to a shiksa like me to think of lighting a menorah as a Christmas tradition. Joy to the world, it’s Hanukkah. And on December 25th, I’ll have my niece point her lap top’s iChat camera at the big tree so I can see all the silver. Life isn’t the way I thought it would be, but then again, it’s pretty damn wonderful.
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“Holidailies participants solemnly vow to update their Web sites daily from Dec. 7 to Jan. 6. . . . “ Day 5 shredded!
