Yesterday I climbed into the attic and threw stuff down through the trap door. Christmas stuff. Garlands. Bags o’seasonal treasures. If it was breakable then I carried it halfway down the ladder (the steep-narrow-shouldn’t-climb-this-thing-with-your-hands-full ladder) before tossing it onto my son’s old bed. Bouncing is good. Shattering is not.
So now, twenty-four plus hours later, most of it’s still on the floor of my son’s old room. Or on his bed. Everything except…ta ta…drumroll please–the lights!
Because if nothing else happens this Christmas, having a few lights up makes me happy. Very happy. So happy I could stop right there. But I won’t because we’ve got a two year old coming.
Toddler+Christmas=BLING.
Last year, in a moment of absolute freakin’ BRILLIANCE, I carefully put each strand of lights in it’s very own bag as soon as I took it down. It’s own special bag with a label. A label that said where it was supposed to go. Front windows. Back Windows. Tree.
Here’s the dining room without lights.
Boring. Positively spartan. Come January I’ll be eager to return to the simplicity. But now, see what a difference a couple strands of icicle lights makes.
Ohhhhhhhhhh…. And now, the same before and after in the living room.
Before. Complete with exercycle and floor pillow jumble on the window seat.
After. All the stuff stuff will go away. The tree will be to the right. But it’s a start.
And then there’s the reflections.
Ahhh…
And now I’ll leave you with the song that’s been bouncing around in my head all day. My go-to Christmas decorating song.
Don’t worry. Tomorrow I’ll embed another one in your head. But not until this one becomes hardwired in your brain cells.
The traffic was backed up all the way from the freeway exit ramp. At first I thought there had been an accident. And then, as we slowly crept up the road, I saw the blinkers come on. One after another waiting patiently for the left turn.
We were all going to the same place.
The parking lot was full. And so was the church. I thought it was standing room only until an usher pointed me to the choir loft. It was empty except for a black and red walker.
Just like Mama’s.
I didn’t want to sit there.
And then I noticed an empty seat, one in from the aisle. I asked if it was taken and the woman sitting next to it said no. So I sat down beside her. Looked around. There were two overhead screens with text and graphics. Up front, where the altar would be, was a bank of candles. Hundreds of them. Three hundred and sixty-three to be exact.
The program was a single piece of paper folded in half. Inside were the names. Three hundred and sixty-three. Divided into months. I found Edith Lobb under April. The month Mama was born, and, ninety-five years eleven months one week and six days later, the month she died.
The choir loft began filling up. I caught the eye of the woman sitting next to me. We began to talk. It wasn’t the usual passing the time of day small talk between strangers. This was a slow, hesitant dance of conversation. We were strangers to one another and yet we knew we had a profound experience in common–the death of a loved one within the past year.
As did everyone else in the hall.
Hello. How you doin’? was too trite and meaningless under the circumstances.
When. Who. How long has it been. Do you need a tissue was more like it.
I didn’t want to be there and yet, when the invitation came in the mail I knew I had to go. Because Hospice had been there for us when we most needed it. And this event, a reading of the names of all those under hospice care who died within the last year–this event was a way for me to honor the people of Hospice as much as it was to honor my mother.
I recognized some of the speakers, the readers of the names. The social worker who had come to the house. One of the nurses. The spiritual advisor who had been as concerned about me as he had been about Mama.
The music was exquisite. A haunting flute solo. Later some beautiful vocals accompanied by acoustic guitar.
And finally a benediction by the minister. Statement. Response. I don’t recall his exact words but our response was, “We release you.” Over and over. “We release you.” I thought of balloons. Of doves. Of souls tied down by human grief being released, flying free.
In the end, while we were waiting to receive our candles, my neighbor turned to me. “Does it ever get any easier,” she asked. Her loss was recent and double that of mine, two family members within weeks of one another. Within weeks of this evening. Mourning’s early days when life is raw and everything hurts.
I assured her that despite what others had told her, it does get better. That eventually she’d have more good days than bad. And one day she would wake up and realize she was okay. That life goes on and it was good.
And then I told her how Mama’s death had created a rebirth in me. After years of caregiving, especially the intense care required at the end, I was now free to blossom with my own life. My words struck a chord, I could see it in her eyes as she leaned forward, soaking up what I had to say. For the first time that night I saw her smile, a flicker of hope lighting up her face as she nodded her head. Yes, yes.
YES! When the grief clears life is still there. And it is good.
In the office…frowned upon. Verboten. Disrupts the workplace. Makes everyone else want some.
Like these two. I caught them at it the other day. On the printing press, no less. Just look at ’em. This is a monsterous–MONSTEROUS, violation of the employee handbook. Look it up. It’s in there under ‘Conduct’: Thou shalt not grope or take physical pleasure from fellow employees on company time.
Because it makes everyone STOP WHAT THEY’RE DOING to take pictures. Tsk. Tsk. Tsk.
This is what they’ll be reduced to if they get caught by admin.
They could end up like Michael and Holly. Oh nooooooooooo….
Inspiration strikes everywhere. Anytime. That’s why I always try to carry my camera around. Because you KNOW the one time I leave it home I miss the PERFECT shot.
Unfortunately that happens more often than I care to admit. But I’m getting better.
I live in a picturesque old gold mining town. Lots of interesting textures and buildings to photograph. But as I said up above, inspiration can come any time, anywhere. Including the sidewalk in front of a strip mall.
I look at this stuff and get so excited. Makes me want to run down to the studio and paint. The paintings will likely look nothing like the photos because that’s not what this is about. They’re for inspiration…. Color. Texture. Design. Proportion. Or all of the above. Layers and layers of oils and wax building up to the final piece.
Mystery. Depth.
That’s what makes it so exciting. That’s what makes it worth stopping traffic on the sidewalk while I whip out my camera and take pictures of the cracks.
