Beautiful Home for the Holidays…

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© Lawren Harris

I’ll be home for Christmas
You can count on me
Please have snow and mistletoe
And presents under the tree
Christmas Eve will find me
Where the love light beams
I’ll be home for Christmas
If only in my dreams.
Buck Ram

As I gazed at my friend’s Christmas tree laden with presents last night, a wave of sentimentality swept over me.

When I lived in Boston, my parents campaigned vigorously each year for my young family to visit at Christmas. The ten-hour drive to Toronto was always fraught with danger in December, particularly around Buffalo, where we often encountered terrible snowstorms. Despite our protestations to stay in the safety and comfort of our own home, my parents, then in their fifties, would tag on our heartstrings by saying, “this may be our last Christmas,” followed by some grizzly tale about a friend or relative who had met with an untimely death just months earlier.

We always resolved to have Christmas in our own home, but caved at the last minute and made the drive to celebrate with them. This modus operandi continued for over two decades, and for my children, Christmases have been associated with their grandparents’ hearth and home.

For the first time, we are not going to be spending Christmas with my parents as they moved into an independent living facility this week after months and months of deliberation and heartbreak. Christmas, as life, will go on – just a little differently this year.

Wreath…

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© Joan Currie

Christmas Wreaths

Our Christmas wreaths are fat and round,
Made of woodsy things we found.
We tied brown cones upon the green,
And stuck red berries in between.
Upon the wreath on our front door,
We tied red ribbon from the store.

Our version of the red ribboned wreath.

Male Aesthetic…

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© Jesper Brandt

It is an interesting question how far men would retain their relative rank if they were divested of their clothes. – Henry David Thoreau

I watched Tom Ford’s finely crafted movie, A Single Man, last night. It reminded me that when I lived in Boston, I was very attracted to the Brooks Brothers look of the impeccably dressed Brahmin in a starched white shirt, Windsor knotted tie, and suit. However, since moving to California, I have found the surfer look much more appealing – that of an open, raw sensuality that commands an appreciative audience and finds no need to cover up.

Wool Socks…

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© Joan Currie

The moral of my ode is this:
beauty is twice beauty,
and what is good is doubly good
when it is a matter of two socks
made of wool in winter.
Robert Bly – Ode to My Socks – translation of Pablo Neruda

I slipped on my cozy wool socks last night and slumbered under the warmth of my eiderdown comforter – absolute bliss!

Thanksgiving Day…

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© Joan Currie

Thanksgiving, after all, is a word of action.

W.J. Cameron

At dawn on Thanksgiving I set out on a road trip to pick up my eldest daughter so that she could join us for our family dinner. Although I was not particularly enthusiastic about doing the six hour drive, as I wanted to stay home to prepare food for our big dinner, I decided to make the best of it.

As it turned out, there was hardly any traffic, the scenery in the morning light was breathtaking, and I was captivated by a CD that I had wanted to hear for some time. The return drive gave my daughter and me a rare opportunity for uninterrupted dialog about her life plans and sharing humorous travel tales. To top it off, when we arrived home, her sisters had prepared the entire feast by themselves and all we had to do was sit down and enjoy it. All in all, despite my initial apprehensions, it turned out to be one of my very best Thanksgivings!

Inner Voice…

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© Moja Ma’at

The first time someone shows you who they are, believe them.

Maya Angelou

The inner voice is a beautiful thing. If heeded, it can act like a Geiger counter to detect potentially harmful situations. In really serious situations it may seem to shout, but at other times, say at the beginning of a relationship, it may be perceived as a whisper. Heed it all the same, regardless of the intensity.

Consider this relatively benign, perhaps trite, but nevertheless heartbreaking example.  I had the pleasure of meeting a man for the first time over brunch. He seemed smart, savvy, sexy, and we even ordered the same item on the menu –  waffles with strawberries. I was so captivated by his charming stories, particularly the one with a spot-on Elvis imitation, that I did not pay attention to my food.

When he paused to eat, I glanced down at our place settings. His plate was perfectly organized – the strawberries had been quartered and arranged neatly in the upper left quadrant while the waffles were perfectly stacked and he was cutting them with the precision and intensity of a neurosurgeon along the grid lines and then dipping them in a small pool of maple syrup that clung to one side of the plate. My plate, on the other hand, was a mess compared to his! It had not even occurred to me to try to impress him by following suit and putting the food in some sort of geometric pattern or order as I consumed it.

At that moment, my inner voice told me that the relationship was a non-starter – that it was doomed to fail. I chose to ignore it, despite the fact that it had never failed me in the past.

Over time we discovered many commonalities, but we also discovered many differences. Our diametrically opposed skill sets might have complimented each other, but in our case his rigidity that I flagged in the first encounter translated into an inflexible attitude toward problem solving and intolerance for other points of view. Close, but no cigar was his assessment of the relationship and he was right! We both chose to pursue other situations, but I regret that I squandered several precious years with him when I might have directed my energies toward finding a better match.

Model – Lauren DiMarco