Tag: Christmas

Christmas Presence, Lights and a Mother’s Love

Posted on December 14, 2017 by

When you love someone,
the best thing you can offer is your presence.
How can you love if you are not there?

~ Thich Nhat Hanh

“Where’s the tree skirt, Mom?” His voice rang in a booming blend of anxiety and excitement at the idea of digging into the boxes of Christmas decorations. Unusual for my boy lately, but I’ll take it.

“Check the bottom of that one – it should be there. We’ve opened all the rest,” I called back, my attention drifting back to the white lights that we not cooperating with my attempts to twist them around the evergreen garland.

“It’s not here, Mom. I’ve checked. Are you sure you got all the boxes out?” His voice rose a note as he moved towards the closet.

“I’m sure. I’ve been through them several times. I took them out by myself – remember?” I hope my exasperation was at just the right level – it seems lately that if I wait around for him to help with something, it would most likely never get done. At least not on my timeline. Eighteen means he’s trying on his independence, figuring out how much adulting he can do while still living ‘under our roof’.

“MOM – it’s not here!”

presence

Our tree, minus the skirt.

Wow – just a minute. Hold on while I finish – better yet, why don’t you HOLD this while I twist – it would go so much faster if we worked together.”

His long fingers gently grasped the garland as I wrapped over, under, over, under. White lights twinkled back as we tediously wrapped the greenery around the mantle, dodging brass reindeer placed to hold stockings above the fire.

“Can we just look upstairs? I love the tree this year – but it really needs the skirt.”

My mind raced back to last January. In my rush towards a fresh new year, life sometimes is jumbled. I don’t always take the time I should to put things in place, I know, but last year, turning the calendar to 2017 wasn’t something I was joyfully anticipating.

But why is it always like this? We sweep the little things away in confusion, hastily pack memories, thinking our presence is more important somewhere else, or it’s too much to deal with once school starts. I’m sure it’s folded and nestled in tissue and newspaper somewhere, knowing that next year, there’d be more time. Just pack it up, box and store and then next year, I’ll deal with it. I’ll be more present then…

And now it’s next year.

I stand aside as he pulls down box after box, filling the closet floor with half-open cartons of memories. “Oh shoot- I should get those out this year,” I quietly mumble, one more reminder of my growing list of ‘should dos’. That one’s labeled “Cameron’s ornaments”, and in the recycled cardboard diaper box next to it, “Lily’s ornaments”. At least I got that part right. Someday, those boxes will shift to their own closets, ready to add childhood moments to adult trees.

“I can’t imagine it would be up here, Cam,” knowing at this point that tree skirt must have disappeared into a jumble of ‘I’ll do it later’ or ‘I’ll just stick it here for now’. But undeterred, box after box is hefted down.

“Good catch, Mom!” he cheers as I narrowly escaped serious injury.

I’m done. I’ll wrap a damn sheet around the tree stand at this point.

“I found it!”

Digging underneath a jumble of lights, Grinch t-shirts and ornament adorned bathroom towels, he pulls out the green and red velvet skirt his father gave me when we moved into this house twenty-three years ago.The gold stitching and tassles are still intact.

Following him down the stairs, breathing a sigh of relief, I watch as he crouches down under our fir glowing with lights like tiny stars under a supermoon. He pulls and tugs,  gently trying to coax the skirt into position.

“How does this fit, Mom? It’s not big enough.” I sense the exasperation in his voice. I’m sure he’s done, ready to move back into solitude in his man cave.

“Just pull it a bit in the back – like this.” I’m down at his level now, tugging from the back as he smoothes in the front.

“That looks awesome, Mom. I just wanted to go all out this Christmas – since it’s my last one at home.”

“Don’t say that,” I whisper to myself as he plops down on the couch, throws his feet onto the chair,  gently stroking his dog’s ears.

I can’t imagine doing this next year without his presence… and once again, the poem repeats in my mind:

When you love someone,
the best thing you can offer is your presence.
How can you love if you are not there?

~ Thich Nhat Hanh

Jennifer Wolfe

Jennifer Wolfe, a writer-teacher-mom, is dedicated to finding the extraordinary in the ordinary moments of life by thinking deeply, loving fiercely, and teaching audaciously. Jennifer is a Google Certified Educator, Hyperdoc fanatic, and a voracious reader. Read her stories on her blog, mamawolfe, and grab free copies of her teaching and parenting resources.

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In The Holiday Spirit

Posted on December 10, 2015 by

I’ll never forget when I was given a gift of the spirit. It wasn’t my birthday or Christmas, both of which fall in this month of magic, but Thanksgiving Day when my aunt decided that it was time this jewelry, so treasured by my grandmother, made its way to me. As I cracked open the hinges and peeked inside, my grandmother’s face flashed before my eyes, and in my vision I saw her with the deep red garnet heart-shaped locket around her neck, the matching earrings dangling against her dark brown curls. She’s been gone for years now, but her spirit stays here with me every day. And in this moment of gratitude, of passing love from one to another, she was smiling.

I’d rather forget the time I received phone calls in the middle of the night – the ones that gently announced the passings of spirits. My grandfather died decades ago one November night; it seems as if I’d just drifted off to sleep in my future husband’s college apartment when I was summoned to go back to his house and comfort my grandmother. Those types of calls, the ones that jolt you out of bed and shatter your world, are at once impossible to dismiss and yet impossibly etched in our minds. She had the pendant on when I arrived that night; his spirit, his photo, fastened to the back of her garnet locket, stays with me. He was smiling, too.

holiday spirit

During the holidays, I usher in the day in the same way from beginning to end: Christmas tree lit, white mantle lights glowing, candle flickering, and I write. I listen for inspiration, for the spirits to remind me that this, here, now, is what the season is about. I know that as soon as the sun rises behind the heavy garnet colored curtains the moment is lost, the magic is put on hold until I return at dusk, and the busyness of everyday life will be upon me.

Today, as the rain pours down the windowpane and the wind whips the trees around my house into a frenzy, I breathe, and pause, and think of them. I remember their love for each other, and for their families. I call in their spirits as my pen scratches gratitudes into my journal, filling the pages with small moments of the extraordinary ordinariness of my life, feeling their love, grateful for 50 years with their spirits by my side.

50 years

The sun will be up soon, my teaching day will begin, but in a dozen hours you can find me, back here in my front room, surrounded by spirits and lights and love.

It’s a gift I’ve learned to give myself; the gift of the holiday spirit, feeling present right here, right now, and remembering all that brings love and comfort and beauty to my life. Today, her pendant will hang softly against my chest. holding their love and spirit, and I will be grateful.

Jennifer Wolfe

Jennifer Wolfe, a writer-teacher-mom, is dedicated to finding the extraordinary in the ordinary moments of life by thinking deeply, loving fiercely, and teaching audaciously. Jennifer is a Google Certified Educator, Hyperdoc fanatic, and a voracious reader. Read her stories on her blog, mamawolfe, and grab free copies of her teaching and parenting resources.

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Friday Photo: Grown Don’t Mean A Thing

Posted on January 10, 2015 by

L and C 2015

“Grown don’t mean nothing to a mother. A child is a child. They get bigger, but grown? What’s that supposed to mean? In my heart it don’t mean a thing.”

~ from Beloved

by Toni Morrison

Life changes when one of your children moves out of the house. Yes, the obvious things sting at first: an empty seat at the table, a bedroom that looks more like a hotel room, and a serious reduction in the laundry load. Over time, I’m finding, it’s the little things that get under my skin, that erupt when I least expect it and I find myself grasping for anything to hold onto – anything to feel safe and ‘normal’ again.

The holidays felt like that – a fleeting, ephemeral run of moments in which my heart would palpitate with the idea that things might be different this year, that our traditions and joys and moments we look forward to might be vanishing into distant memories.

I’m not ready for that quite yet.

It was an exercise in holding on and letting go, an endeavor of wills to choose from what was, what is, and what the ‘new normal’ will be. I struggled to figure out how to find a moment when the four of us could be together to decorate the Christmas tree. I waited to make the treats we love until she was back under our roof. We never did find time to hang the outside lights, drive around at night to view the neighborhood decorations, or do a full fledged day of Christmas shopping.

Thanks to my talented sister, though, we managed to get a Christmas card photo. That’s something that in normal circumstances is challenging at best, but when one child is 650 miles away, it becomes nearly impossible. In all the turmoil, excitement and confusion of the holidays, this photo is my greatest gift. My children. Bigger? Yes, definitely. But grown? Not really. Not yet.

I’ve got one more day with my girl before she leaves to her new home. She’s grown, moved away, and is creating her own version “normal”, but that doesn’t really mean a thing to me. In my heart, she’ll always be my first baby, my girl, the one who introduced me to motherhood. He’ll always be the little one. Moments strung together, like a tangled mess of discarded Christmas tree lights, cement their place in my heart. Flashes of what was, what is, and what will be light my way through the darkness.

No, grown don’t mean a thing.

Jennifer Wolfe

Jennifer Wolfe, a writer-teacher-mom, is dedicated to finding the extraordinary in the ordinary moments of life by thinking deeply, loving fiercely, and teaching audaciously. Jennifer is a Google Certified Educator, Hyperdoc fanatic, and a voracious reader. Read her stories on her blog, mamawolfe, and grab free copies of her teaching and parenting resources.

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Bring A Little Joy To The World

Posted on December 21, 2014 by

bring a little joy to the world

The heat slapped us in the face as we enter, shaking off the drizzle from our sweaters. The air, not as unpleasant as I expected, had that institutional smell, a mixture of leftover lunch, sickness and aging. I smiled at my son as he awkwardly drifted to the chair in the back of the waiting room, festive green Christmas tree glasses perched crookedly on his nose. We’re a motley crew, come together as strangers and friends to bring a little joy to the world today.

“Remember, keep it upbeat. Keep it lively. We’ll skip any scary verses or references to Satan. Most people only know the first two verses anyways. Some of those carols can be scary, you know,” Cathy deftly commands. “I’ll lead us. The goal is not just singing – it’s connection. That’s why we’re here.”

I grab Cameron’s hand as the group breaks into a disjointed “Frosty the Snowman”, feeling his hesitancy. As we shuffle down the hall, a grizzled man in a cream-colored, patched down jacket smiles. “‘Joy To The World,’he shouts out. “Sing that one. That’s the only one I know.”

Cathy doesn’t hear, and rolls right into “Rudolph”. The beige walls glare at me as I walk by, darkened rooms with open doors and closed curtains beg for me to peer in. Feeling intrusive, I focus on the next song. “We Wish You A Merry Christmas” rolls out, and I notice the man behind me. His down coat covers a hospital gown, and his right hand clutches a urine bag. “I just got here yesterday,” he tells me. “And look what I get today.”

I smile through my uneasiness, wondering if he’s ok to shuffle along with the group. No one seems to be watching him. I’m trying to concentrate on the song, but my mind wanders. Why is he here? Is he dying? Does anyone know that he’s spending Christmas alone?

“Silent night, Holy night/Son of God, love’s pure light/Radiant beams from thy holy face/With the dawn of redeeming grace…”

I find myself paused next to another man, his dark brown hair barely tinged with grey, yet his face shows his experience. Dark eyes gaze straight ahead, unwavering. I smile, and he stares.

“Silent night, Holy night/Shepherds quake, at the sight…” 

Who does he belong to? Who loves him? My mind searches for his story, for some clue of who he was before, but I get nothing.

Across the hall I catch eyes with a brown haired woman sitting up in her bed. Her youthfulness surprises me; her hands come together in joy as she sees me sing to her, her eyes reaching out as her arms wish they could. I consider walking in, but pause at the sign barring my entry to her room.

Scanning the hall for Cam, I notice he’s disappeared into the crowd. We enter what looks like a common, room. “Keep it jazzy – think Perry Como,”  Cathy reminds us.

“Have yourself a merry little Christmas/ Let your heart be light/ From now on, our troubles will be out of sight”

We struggle with the tempo; maybe the lyrics are getting to us. The man in front of me grips the dark green tablecloth, bunching it in his fists. His head is dipped slightly; I stare, straining  to see if his hands match the rhythm.

“Mom, I was out in the hallway with this lady. I think she was crying.” Cam whispers in my ear. He’s quietly come in behind me, and puts his hand on my shoulder. I’m afraid to turn, for him to see the tears in my own eyes. I know which lady he’s talking about. I feel her eyes reach me through the wall.

The man in the cream coat, still with us, sits down next to a mute woman in a wheelchair. He smiles at her. “I just got here yesterday,” he says, “and look what I got today.” Her closely cropped silver hair is neatly styled, her head bobbing as we sing. The woman next to her rocks gently, as if remembering days gone by. She must be someone’s mother, I think.

“He rules the world with truth and grace
And makes the nations prove
The glories of His righteousness
And wonders of His love
And wonders of His love
And wonders and wonders of His love”

Cameron’s voice is deeper than I remember. Time passes quickly, these moments together so fleeting.  “Sometimes when I’m in places like this, son, I try to remember that they could be yours – your great grandparents, your grandparents, your people. You would hope someone would sing to them, bring a little joy to their world,” I whisper to him, and to myself.

Jennifer Wolfe

Jennifer Wolfe, a writer-teacher-mom, is dedicated to finding the extraordinary in the ordinary moments of life by thinking deeply, loving fiercely, and teaching audaciously. Jennifer is a Google Certified Educator, Hyperdoc fanatic, and a voracious reader. Read her stories on her blog, mamawolfe, and grab free copies of her teaching and parenting resources.

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Two Kinds of Quiet

Posted on December 20, 2014 by

Christmas gingerbread

Cello strains of “O Come O Come, Emmanuel” were suddenly the only sounds in my living room. It’s quiet, I realized as I savored the last crumbs of my peanut butter toast. Too quiet. So quiet, I can feel everything.

My coffee has cooled over the last three hours I’ve been awake. Two separate waves of skiers out the door, warm breakfast burritos wrapped in tin foil and carefully labeled with duct tape in hand. The dog won’t leave my side-he senses something is up. It’s that kind of quiet that most moms of teens dream of – the kind of quiet when you know the day is spread out before you like a deserted path, and you have no idea which direction to go. The kind of quiet when your monkey mind settles and creative juices start to flow. The kind of quiet when you can snuggle back into bed, throw up the covers and dream long, glorious dreams.

This is kind of quiet that, for me, calls to be filled with activity. A walk. A to-do list. Cleaning the house, top to bottom, washing and folding and sweeping and weeding and baking and organizing and…

anything to fill the quiet – the kind of quiet that my  monkey mind clamors all over and wishes it were filled with the sounds of him playing Christmas carols on the piano, the giggles of girls decorating Christmas cookies and the whispers of friends in the other room, sharing stories saved from long months spent alone…

There are two kinds of quiet. The kind of quiet when I hear the candles flicker, feel the crumbs drop onto my plate, and the Christmas music plays on and on and on. The kind of quiet that mothers dream of, and the kind they dread, one in the same.

Be careful what you wish for.

 

Jennifer Wolfe

Jennifer Wolfe, a writer-teacher-mom, is dedicated to finding the extraordinary in the ordinary moments of life by thinking deeply, loving fiercely, and teaching audaciously. Jennifer is a Google Certified Educator, Hyperdoc fanatic, and a voracious reader. Read her stories on her blog, mamawolfe, and grab free copies of her teaching and parenting resources.

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