Merry Christmas Morn! I slept in until 6:30 this morning because I didn’t have to be anywhere. When I did rise, I left the lights off and watched the dawn as it came on. How often does that happen? Not often enough for this lover of solitude. During the night, between deep and dreamful sleep, I experienced feelings of gratitude and thanksgiving. My life is good. Whether I am alone or with family, friends, or acquaintances; my life is good. Before tucking into bed last night, I spent a couple hours reading a new book, lately received as a Christmas gift. What a treat. A new book. Free time to read. Time for a walk or a hike. A larder stocked with traditional Christmas treats, made from generations old recipes – the culinary gift of a roommate exploring upcycling, recycling, vintage crafting and traditional homemaking and kitchen arts. Before she left to spend Christmas Day with her other next of kin, she asked, “Now how many of these are you going to limit yourself to in the next two days? Because, I will leave that many and take all the rest with me.” How can you go wrong with a plan like that? I am the grateful recipient of two divinities per day and two Christmas cookies per day. Merry Christmas! May you absolutely luxuriate in gratitude and love and peace and joy!
If you missed it before, my Christmas Card to you is here on Youtube. Glimmers of Gratitude
“I’ll just wait in the car,” he said. “I didn’t bring footwear for hiking.” He flew in from Seattle the day before Thanksgiving with the requisite winter coat on his back and a small backpack to stow under the seat of the plane. It was now two and a half days past Thanksgiving and four hours before departure time. “No problem,” we said, Christmas Tree permit in hand. “It will be fun.” “We know the area. We’ll find a good place to park and a perfect tree 101 feet away.”
But first: First the wilderness ranger went to church to be the drummer for the praise band. First I went to the French Bakery to play the piano for three hours and a half. Then he and I ate lunch and waited for the drummer to come home. Time to go. But first he pulled on wool socks over the cotton pair. First the wilderness ranger had to unload the camping gear from her four-wheel-drive truck. Then she ate lunch. And that is how it came to be we set out four hours before departure time to find the perfect Christmas tree.
But first: We needed to stop by the One Acre Wood to get the tree saw and hatchet. No problem. We were at the One Acre Wood only three days ago on Thanksgiving afternoon. Eight inches of new snow had fallen in the interim. With full confidence she drove her knobby tires over the snowy barricade caused by the neighborhood snowplow and began the descent to the camping shed and tool chest. I jumped out and loaded tools onboard. Jumped in, buckled my seatbelt and after slippery attempts at each of the ramps out of the circle drive, and critical assessment, we found we were – – stuck.
Gentle Reader, he did not – he did not wait in the car. Nor did I. Shovel by shovel, bucket of gravel by bucket of gravel, mud mat by transferred mud mat; we advanced car length by car length up the slippery incline until the angle of ascent became manageable. 90 minutes of intense workout for three persons each well-conditioned for their respective ages. Some will not need to go to the gym for a few days. All will need a hot tub. And, yes, thanks to forethought and planning, we made it to the airport on time – but we didn’t pass home. And we don’t have a Christmas tree.
Success! A week later. The wilderness ranger completed the mission alone.
Love makes the world go round.Love is all you need. Love conquers all.
Love is a basic need as surely as food and shelter. But what of the wall flower who has never had the chance to dance? What of the woman or man who has tirelessly put others first, giving and giving and giving love with no reciprocation until his or her well is empty and dry? What then? Does their world cease to go round? If all she needs is love, yet her emotional wallet is flat, and no one is handing out alms, how broke is she? Maybe he fought valiantly, believing love conquers all, but he lies slain by the lack of it, no reinforcements in sight. What then?
Valentine’s Day approaches. Some of you are going to have to learn to love yourself. For me, this has been a hard concept to grasp, but here is what I have concluded: Good religion teaches me to love my neighbor as I love myself. If I honestly endeavor to love my neighbor as myself; which scenario results in more love to my neighbor; loving myself less? Or loving myself more? Further, I must learn tolove myself unconditionally; to understand that I am not perfect, that I make mistakes. Once I understand and love myself unconditionally, I am able to extend that love to others.
Is it possible to declare, “I will love myself (and therefore others) unconditionally,” and just do it? Maybe it is different for different people. In any case, I find that the decision to engage in selflove has to be made over and over each day. Consider the main character in my work in progress:
She had to remind herself to engage in selfcare. To do it consistently until it became a habit. In the same way, she had to remember to love herself – unconditionally, lavishly, until it became a habit – until she became so loving that she was besotted – a soggy, full sponge – so that anytime she was squeezed, or pressured, or pushed, a little bit of love dripped out.
Valentine’s Day approaches, are you feeling wrung out? May the only thing that comes from you be love.
May you love yourself lavishly and may you love your neighbor as you love yourself.
He doesn’t ask for much. Her grown children rarely do. So when a request comes through, she is usually happy to comply. She jumps at the opportunity. Her adult children are all independent, successful – and often give her more than she was ever able to give them during their growing up years. She hears from her youngest least. He is thoroughly autonomous though gracious and loving when she does get to interact with him. He’ll turn 30 this month. Mother and son are separated by more than a thousand miles. She has seen him once in the last 22 months and that was Mother’s Day. Typically, in the weeks preceding his birthday, she will text: what do you want for your birthday? Tell me something cheap and something expensive. He will answer. She will place an online order and he will text his thanks and surprise when the gift is delivered. Over the years these gifts have included anything from quarter inch monster cables to socks to trendy sport shoes to this year’s wood travel chess set.
She was sitting across the table from her roommate last night enjoying a late evening snack and a rundown of the day when the text came in.
Youngest son: Do you have any pictures of me in that power ranger outfit you made?
Now I ask you, what mom doesn’t have pictures? Hers have been stored in albums and shoe boxes in an old wooden toy box for the past 10 years as she moved around the region. Only recently has that wooden chest been unearthed from storage in a basement. For 10 years nobody but Mom needed anything from that chest.
Mom: Yes. How soon do you need it? All old photos are in the teaching bench underneath the live Christmas Tree….
Youngest son: Jist send me a cell phone pic real quick!
(Real quick? Does he know what he is asking? It will take two people to lift the lighted, plugged-in, tree-in-a-pot down from its perch on the teaching bench. She knows. Already she has been through this process for one of her own memory projects, despite thinking ahead and insuring all photos were thoroughly tucked away – unneeded – before installing the tree).
Mom: We didn’t have cell phones back then.
Youngest son: no like just take a picture of it haha
Youngest son: (attaches cell phone picture of his band mate / roommate as green ranger)
This is a picture of our guitarist! His mom made this, and I want to show him mine.
She shows the photo to her roommate. Without a word they rise, lift the tree from the riser and set it on the floor. She hinges back the lid and puts her hand on the most promising album.
Halfway through the pages chronicling 1994 to 1997 she finds the photo, slips it out and snaps a picture and uploads to text.
Youngest son: that’s amazing thank you
She and her roommate sigh and finish sipping tea while the memories percolate. Her roommate is, after all, the pink ranger – and she is, to this very day a ninja – as is her brother.
The memories belonged to her. The memories were hers to keep. For a long time, she didn’t know that. Some of the memories were too wondrous to believe. Other memories were so painful she didn’t ever want to revisit them. She noticed that even with the wonderful memories came that twinge in the side, the catch in the breath, the knowledge that those good times were gone forever and would never return. So, because even the good times hurt; because she chose not to revisit the bad times – to ever think of them again; she boxed up those memories, labeled them, “do not open,” and stored them in the attic of her mind.
Somehow, she thought she could no longer use the silver and gold and the good china simply because it was all packed up with the shattered crystal and the refuse of past relationships. It was a tangled mess. But there is a difference between untangling and unraveling. Once the years had run their course and she was healed of her unraveling, she began the untangling. She separated the paper roses and shards and discarded them. And she resolved not to be any longer robbed of the good memories. The good memories belonged to her. She was an active participant in those memories; not a passive, shriveled up defeated observer. There were memories of diamonds and rubies and stars and constellations and melodies and stages. There was snow and sleigh rides; warm beaches and plane rides. There were memories of small children and grown children and parents and grandchildren. And yes, sigh, there were memories of lovers and proposals – – and betrayals.
“Only a friend can betray a friend, a stranger has nothing to gain (Michael Card 1984).”
When a friend comes close enough to be a real friend – to actually mean something to your heart – there is always the potential for pain. If not the pain of betrayal; then certainly, some day, the pain of loss.
And this was the year she decided to actively, intentionally unpack the memories; to savor the good memories. To experience joy. To be at Peace. With her past and with her future.
The Ghosts of Christmas Past Slide Show by Cherry Odelberg 2020. Smile At This Lovely Time of Year, written and sung by Cherry (Cheryl Shellabarger) Odelberg, Produced and Arranged by Harvey Schmitt. Recorded at WHS recording studios, Dallas Texas first released on Christmas With Jonah and the Wailers CD and cassette at Fellowship Bible Church, Dallas Texas circa 1995
All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth. Well, actually, I got that wish way back in 1963 when I exited third grade. However, time has run its course and I did have all my front teeth filled and sheathed in early 2020. It was one of the gifts I gave myself this year.
All I want for Christmas is you? Frankly, my dear, having you under the Christmas tree would only complicate things. It has been a wonderful year of innovation and self-actualization. Not like the year I hung the mistletoe in a prominent arch and waited – for two years – without result. In that case, the gift I tried to give was not reciprocated. I’ve learned to live without kisses – just as many have learned to live without hugs this year.
Mostly, my grown up Christmas wish list is still intact.
No more lives torn apart That wars would never start And time would heal all hearts And everyone would have a friend And right would always win And love would never end…This is my grownup Christmas list – and I wish it particularly for the families and friendships that have been damaged and distanced in this vicious and heinous election year. It is not worth it, friends. In the end you alone cannot control the outcome of world events by your rhetoric. But you can make it your business to love your mother, your father, your sister, your brother; to love your neighbor as yourself – and to never, never, give up on your children.
What do I want for Christmas? In the course of the year I have provided for myself a washer, a dryer, bass amp, power drill and driver, a down sleeping bag, down vests, smart wool socks, a kayak, and some smart wool underwear. Once I get waterproof winter hiking boots I will be better equipped than ever before to get outside and keep myself healthy; physically, mentally, emotionally and especially spiritually.
Even though I don’t need my two front teeth or someone or something wrapped and under the tree; I’ve been thinking a lot about gifts this December.
A few years back I was traveling with my daughter in the Rocky Mountains. Snow still lay on the ground so it was probably April, my typical vacation time. We parked at the lovely rock chapel of Saint Malo Retreat. We tried the door. It was unlocked. Empty chapel. Available piano. I sat and played a chorus; Ode to Joy. Other tourists passed in and out. A mother and nine-year-old daughter stood behind me and watched. “How does she do that?” whispered the daughter. “Darling, it is a gift,” replied the mother. This simplistic answer irked my daughter who had just completed college with a minor in music. It niggles in the back of my mind this Christmas season as I contemplate gifts and all I want for Christmas.
A Gift takes you nowhere unless you receive it, open it up, and use it. The drill I bought myself in October? If I leave it in the tool bag on the shelf in the laundry room, it does nothing. I have to get it out, insert a drill bit or driver tip, practice, actually apply it to the antique furniture it was bought to bolster. The genetic gift of a good ear and predisposition for music is nothing without application and practice. The unquenchable urge to write – to be heard – is nothing but a constant emotional battle for me if I attempt to squelch it due to fear or embarrassment.
This year I gave myself permission to be about my bucket list with full confidence. My time on earth grows short. The ghosts of Christmas past may try to haunt me, yet I will align myself with Christmas present! I will climb every mountain. I will paddle every lake and stream. I will sing and make music on eighty-eight keys and six strings and four strings. I will write the books that have simmered on the back burner for three decades. I will find my voice and be heard. How about you? What do you want for Christmas?
The Cemetery Wives, by Cherry Odelberg. Full cover art for The Cemetery Wives, created by Courtney V. Harris – available as an ebook on AmazonThe Pancake Cat by Cherry Odelberg, Cover art by Andrea Shellabarger, Available to order wherever books are sold
We attended a wedding yesterday. Yes. We suspended our Saturday busyness and took baths in the vintage claw foot tub, dressed with care in garments chosen from the special events side of our closets –seldom used of late – and Zoomed in and attended the wedinar. It was a very early wedding for some of the guests. 9:00 AM Mountain Daylight time for those of us in Colorado. God forbid you woke on the west coast this morning and had to be washed and dressed and in attendance by 8:00 AM.
It probably seemed a late wedding for the principals who have known each other – known this was the one – for three years and who have been waiting, waiting for COVID19 to clear. Late or not, it was a beautiful wedding. 11:00 AM in Cambridge meant the bride looked fashionably appropriate in her street-length, flare-skirted, professionally tailored, white wedding dress and elbow length veil. The ceremony took place in a lovely, huge, Presbyterian church complete with pipe organ, vestments, linens and vessels of communion; and empty pews. Fortunately, both bride and groom are musically astute so they obligingly sang the congregational hymns. But most of all, the bride and groom are intelligent and wise. We loved them for their integrity. We applauded them for pulling this off in the midst of a socially distanced pandemic and in such a way that we could be invited and included- something that would not have been possible from a distance of 2,000 miles in more traditional times.
And we cried. Not because of Coronavirus and because these kids can’t have a regular wedding with hundreds in attendance. No. We cried for all the reasons guests usually cry at weddings. We cried because they are young and idealistic and have perfect plans for their lives. One of us is old and disillusioned and knows what too often happens to idealistic plans. So she wipes her tears and smiles and says in her heart, may theirs come to fruition! The other of us is still young and idealistic and listens to their vows with rapt attention and thinks, it finally happened for them. Will this ever finally happen for me? We listen to the bride’s parents extol her virtues. She is literary and loves to hike and camp. Sigh. She is a perfect woman. We weep. Like women of any age and any era we look over the groomsmen in Zoom thumbnails and try to decipher who is most eligible. In the plus column, we see that all have beards. Wonder of wonders, they are quoting C.S. Lewis in their wedding speeches. What riches! What intelligence! We have found our people! Briefly, we cry again for joy. Where have all the young men gone? We also see companions in the thumbnails; family members in the guestbook photo gallery. Ah, most of the wedding party have found their people and are surrounded by wives and toddlers. The best woman (aka sister of the groom) is planning her nuptials That is good! The world is unfolding as it should. And again, we weep.
Not one tear do we shed for social distance. We are happy to be invited and attend virtually. In no other way would it be possible to be present. We didn’t have to wait until cake was served. You can have your cake – and eat it too, and your popcorn or chips anytime you feel like it at a virtual wedding. You can run spontaneously to the kitchen for chips and juice to take communion with the un-crowd. I even answered a phone call from the other room.
So yes. It is August of 2020 and we went to a wedinar yesterday. We laughed. We were inspired and comforted. We wept. What makes you cry at weddings?
Saturday, I returned from a 24-hour trip to Grand Junction in which I had seen my 86-year-old mother finally pain -free and at peace. I was exhausted. I could hear my daughter talking to our neighbors in the back yard. I snuck into my bedroom, closed the door and crawled onto the bed. A couple minutes later came a knock at my door, “Mom? Can I just say hi!” It was my youngest son whom I have not seen for 16 months. Unbeknownst to me, the kids had been planning this surprise before I got the call that Mom was in her final hours. So grateful for the gift of perfect timing. I got to see my oldest son on Saturday and enjoy a hike and brunch with my younger two children on Sunday. And I rest in the knowledge that my mother is not sorry at all to be released from this life.
One of my friends, who knows what it is to lose a parent, called it “bittersweet.” Indeed, that is the essence of life. But the sweet lasts. Hang on to that!
She reached out her hand to turn the handle, leaned in to give a gentle push with a shoulder, and plunged her face into the donut hole of the fresh wreath on the administrative office door. Suddenly she was falling, falling down the rabbit hole of memory, back more than three decades, to the Christmas she got engaged. Now that was a Christmas to remember! Who needs mistletoe? Evening after evening spent caressing under the Christmas tree -post Christmas show rehearsals – like a cast party of only two. Promises and proposals and a ring followed. Forgotten were his memories of rocky childhood Christmases; redacted her years of rejection before he entered her life.
Pine, spruce, cedar, fir. It’s beginning to smell a lot like Christmas, everywhere you go. All in all, what we love best about Christmas is the trip down memory lane, the nostalgia of Christmases past, the promise of generosity and good surprises. The hope, the belief, that hard times can be suspended for 24 hours – or 48 – or 12 days-or an entire month.
Some Christmases are so rich we forget the tough times that came before. This season, may you forget the tough times that came after as well! Few of us are granted happily ever after. There will be grief and pain of loss.
Here’s the thing about trips down memory lane. You may savor a good memory one instant and the next moment be rear-ended by grief because that person or those good times will never come again.
Consider: “She reached out her hand to turn the handle, leaned in to give a gentle push with a shoulder, and plunged her face into the donut hole of the fresh wreath on the administrative office door. Suddenly she was falling, falling down the rabbit hole of memory,” And those good times are her right – they are a reality – something that really happened – they belong to her as much as any of the negative realities or rippings and tearings of the ensuing 30 years.
Embrace the memories. Let them enfold and warm you. Choose to engrave that small cameo permanently in your heart. Love it. Savor it. Linger over it. Don’t let all the hardship or misunderstanding of following years dull this singular memory.
Here’s to Christmas and many trips down memory lane!
She was just 18-and-a-half and not a drop of alcohol had ever touched her lips. This was partly because of temperance promises made as a youngster and partly because she lived at home until she turned 18. During those first 18 years of life, her parents kept pretty strict tabs on her activities. Not legal. Not allowed. Not according to their standard? Not allowed. This was her first Christmas away from home. She was now a full-fledged adult, married five months previous.
Along with her teenaged husband, she was living in Germany, land of cautionary beer. Her husband was on the fast track for sampling everything adulthood had to offer. The young woman was doing her best to cling to the strict religious rules with which she was raised. There were times they clashed. Christmas Eve was a narrow escape.
The young couple was invited downstairs, from a tiny attic apartment to the living quarters of the landlord, to share in the festivities. Sparklers on a Christmas Tree. A full spread of breads and cold cuts served at the family table. An exchange of gifts around the tree. And then, a cut glass decanter passed round with tiny crystal cordial glasses.
A quiet soul and not given to making scenes, the young woman endeavored to pass. But the 19-year-old son of the host noticed. “Why do you not drink?” he asked with some suspicion, re-offering the decanter. The new husband, who could make a scene when the principle warranted it, knit his brows and glared at his teenage bride. The meaning was clear, “You are embarrassing me!” Meekly, she took the cup. Not out of blind submission or intimidation, but in respect to her hosts. In her quietness, she had been reading earlier that day. And what she read, loud and clear was: “ [When you are invited to a feast] eat or drink whatever is put before you without raising questions of conscience.” Obedience to a higher ideal.
An hour later she became violently ill. But it was not due to a fastidious reaction of conscience. Nor was it caused entirely by the abundance and variety of bread and salami urged on the couple by hospitable Germans. The illness continued four months. In late July, she brought forth her firstborn son. And they named him something rather Irish sounding that meant handsome by birth. To the young woman, he was the most handsome baby she had ever seen. But he was only the teeniest tiniest bit Irish and not a bit German.
I would like to say she never gave a second thought to rules about what she ate and drank ever again, but that is not the truth. The truth is, she still had a lot of growing and learning to do and she had only just begun to think for herself.
Putting One Foot in Front of the Other, Hiking for Life!
