Sunday, December 25, 2016

Week 68 - switchel, christmas, and the perfectly imperfect


I love the music of Christmas and though I sing with more enthusiasm than skill, was looking forward to singing in the church choir this morning. But I went to bed Christmas Eve as a soprano and awoke a basso profundo. And so Christmas morning I sat in the back near the exit so we could slip out without passing germs along with handshakes and hugs.

The service was beautiful - beautiful heartfelt words, beautiful heart-filling music. I spoke my James Earl Jones narration to all the congregational carols and then closed my eyes, closed my mouth and sang along in my heart with the choir - filled with gratitude and a deep happiness though I had no throat to give it voice.


And so another imperfect Christmas to honor His most perfect gift -- a celebration flawed but happy, as they almost always are, as I am myself.

The house still has boxes (and the garage has more) but we've made the best of it, brought out the familiar decorations, hung up lights to brighten the darkness.

I still don't know what I'm doing here.  Though it's lovely here and everyone has been lovely.


I had put aside this past week to bake the boys' favorites (and mine), namely Limey Lambs, Nutmeg Bears, Cocoa Crackles, Almond Crescents. But a nasty cold bug saw that window and jumped right through to grab me by the throat.

If it weren't for our darling neighbors here who have provided a generous parade of cookies and homemade candies and other holiday treats, I'd worry about my boys feeling deprived. Instead, in a last bid for health and vigor enough to inflict (and not infect) ourselves upon my parents, I made switchel Christmas night :

Switchel 
8 cups water
1 lemon, zested and juiced
4 Tbs real apple cider vinegar
6 Tbs local raw honey
4 inches ginger, peeled and grated
a couple of cinnamon sticks
You can buy this natural ginger ale in small bottles already made up in the health food section where it costs a pretty penny, but it's only about a dime and as many minutes to mix up a large jar and leave overnight in the fridge.

I'm believing with a vengeance all the folklore/ science about unfiltered raw apple cider vinegar  tonight and believing even more that once I get through this rough spot, this cold, this dark, I'll be whole and hale with useful work to fill my hands and light my heart.


Until then, this perfectly imperfect Christmas, with its good that outbalances any bad, is like a postcard from that warm, well-lighted place that I'm going to trust is waiting just ahead.




Wednesday, December 21, 2016

Week 67 - living in a Dickens novel


The news is full of characters straight out of Dickens.

Mr. President-Elect, meet Mr. Honeythunder --
" . . . Is he a large man, Ma?" 
"I should call him a large man, my dear," the old lady replied after some hesitation, "but that his voice is so much larger."
Scrooge, you need no introduction to Bannon, abandoned banner-carrier of the alternative right (which is not the left, but is certainly wrong).  And humble, hungry Uriah Heep is already giving his two-cents-worth to Pence.  Meanwhile, and I quote, "Jessica Ditto, a spokeswoman for Mr. Trump, said . . . " and meanwhile Sean Spicer, seasons facts for public consumption.  Ditto and Spicer, too blatant a change from Joshua Earnest, the outgoing press secretary for the White House.



Needing to get out of my head, we drove down into the city.  Caught a movie, The Arrival.  It's slow and murky, but never loses my attention.  I emerge from the story only with the closing credits, feeling cleansed and energized.  The action of hope working on me, I guess.  Fritz says, "I can see your antennae twitching. There's something there for you, isn't there?"

We had found an old-time cheap-ticket movie theatre and for $2 I think I'd like to see the movie again, right then.  But there's no late show for Arrival and instead we go see some profane shoot-em-up slug-fest.  It feels like a violation -- the gentleness and stubborn thought broken and trampled by brainless violence and shallow noise.  Whatever light I'd caught is lost.



On the screens at home: Aleppo

Aleppo is one of those towns that always showed up in the books I read. The crossroads of the Silk Road, the world's first consular city -- which means that in Aleppo, diplomats from Venice, France and England were allowed to look after their nationals in the region rather than just live at court to represent their king.

The name Aleppo is from the Italian Aleppo, from French Alep, from Ottoman Turkish حلب ‎(halep), from Arabic حَلَب ‎(ḥalab), of uncertain origin -- as so much of everything these days is.

Folk-etymology of this ancient city's name explains that it is from Arabic حَلَبَ ‎(ḥalaba, “gave out milk”), reflecting the even-more-ancient tradition of Abraham giving milk to travelers, the man of hospitality so renowned that even angels came to visit.



Aleppo was famous for its souks -- its rich and intriguing bazaars--for its large Christian population, for Baron's hotel, a required stop on the Grand Tour, British headquarters during WWI, where T.E. Lawrence stayed and the Lindberghs and the Roosevelts, archaeologists, royalty. In the books I read of wandering archaeologists, round-the-world cyclists, and others of their ilk, Aleppo is always the safe place they get to rest, the gracious and generous welcoming city in that tradition of Abraham rushing around to provide a meal for the three angels.

Now in Aleppo children have no milk and there is no safety there.

I know this has been happening in other places. But here is a storied place - a place made real to me through years of reading about it - and it is being destroyed. And the people who live there are posting videos they fear may be their last asking someone in the world to help them.

But the best I can do is sign up for a training for working with refugees that will happen in February. None of this seems real.  All around me a hard relentless plot grinds on.  Bleak House.  Great Expectations.  The Mystery of Edwin Drood.









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