Christmas is less than four days away; our pace has slowed. The office parties are over. The shopping is mostly complete. Meals are planned and in the staging process. The kids are out of school and folks are traveling to be with friends and family.
On the banks of the Maquoketa River, the winter solstice dawned with a glassine coat of ice on the bare tree limbs; everything a shade of white and gray, beautiful. I passed a farm, surprised by the brilliant yellow of a full corn crib.
The first day of winter and we await a snow storm. In town, there was the expected scurry of shoppers on the last Saturday before Christmas, but there was more bustling as they prepared for several inches of snow and the guarantee of a white Christmas. It was the talk of every shopkeeper, every customer, and no one seemed too bothered by it.
I have only to wrap a few gifts between now and Christmas. I'm halfway through listening to my Christmas music collection. Afternoons are filled with Bing Crosby, Elvis, Bette Midler, the Pink Martinis, Dixie, jazz and folk Christmas carols. I save 'O Holy Night' and Mahalia Jackson's 'Silent Night' for Christmas Eve; the moment I feel the true spirit of Christmas and as close to God as I can get.
I will think of all my friends, scattered the world over, it seems. I will think of Jeff and remember our Christmases together. I will remember my friend, Christopher, who passed away this year, and those glorious, fun, strawberry-filled Christmas Eves we spent in the warmth of our closest friends.
The older I get, the more astounded I am by the passage of time; by things I have collected and the memories attached to them. I am mystified by the blessings I've been given. I have been softened by heartaches.
The perfectly not-so-perfect path our lives seem to take.
Those first snowflakes tonight, the vallens (an old word for snowfall), will arrive quietly, muffling an already silent river valley. I will stand at the window, in the glow of my Christmas tree, and breathe deeply. And wonder.
Merry Christmas.
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