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Gift of Restraint

Gift of Restraint

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I”m just back from a last-minute shopping run, and I’ve decided that one of the less-appreciated but most important presents we can (not) buy is … the gift of restraint.

Yes, I did pick up a few extra items, but there were many, many more that I did not. I avoided the games section, refuge of the lost and frantic. And the jewelry and toiletries, ditto. Doing this not only saves me money, but it saves my loved ones time because they will have fewer gifts to return this year.

This is not to say they won’t find many gifts underneath the tree. They will! But there are some they will not find … and they will thank me for that!

Real v. Fake

Real v. Fake

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As I prepare to finish my holiday shopping I’m encouraged to learn about an expense I have so far avoided this season. The nine-foot “Starry Night” artificial Christmas tree by Frontgate costs $2,474 — though you can score another tree from this brand for a mere $999.

I learned this from a Washington Post article this morning, which also contains these tidbits: Americans prefer fake trees by two to one. And last year 63 percent of Republicans said they planned to buy an artificial tree compared with 44 percent of Democrats.

In this house the trees are always real … though never say never.

The Countdown Begins

The Countdown Begins

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Now the countdown really begins. Even December 18th and 19th have the aura of Christmas about them, and certainly the 20th does. These dates glow with an ancient brightness. They echo down through centuries. When will we hit the darkest day? When will we hit bottom and start to rise again?

Of course, these close-to-Christmas dates also have personal memories, harking back to childhood. They were the days that would never end, full of anticipation and wonder and even a little bit of fear. Had I been good enough? Would there be a bride doll or a bicycle or whatever else I absolutely had to have waiting for me underneath the tree?

Those days are long gone, of course, but memories of them linger and color late December, make it a magical time, even now.

Split Screen

Split Screen

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Last night was perhaps best summed up by my daughter Suzanne, who sent around this text early in the evening: “Christmas in Washington: Cookies in the oven, Congress on TV.” I imagine this was the case throughout the nation, where holiday activities met with political goings-on.

And in fact, there were decisions to be made. Does one trim the tree while watching members of Congress cast votes for article 1 and article 2?  How about addressing Christmas cars? Would that be a suitable accompaniment for watching the president be impeached? And does one keep the recorded carols playing, or turn them down out of respect?

I settled for a smidge of online shopping and a good conversation with Celia, who thinks there ought to be an upper age limit set for holding political office, just as there is a lower one. It’s an understandable sentiment given what was unfolding before us.

Messiah Sing-Along

Messiah Sing-Along

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Tonight we gather again, the wavering sopranos, the alto who has a little sinus drainage and is wondering if she can hit the high notes, the tenor who hasn’t sung in public since high school, the baritone who does this every year and secretly wishes he could have a solo.

Tonight we gather to sing Handel’s great masterpiece, a most forgiving work, full of runs and other acrobatics but at heart a piece for the people— an egalitarian oratorio that welcomes all pilgrims.

I’m making educated guesses on the other singers, but I can vouch for this alto. I’ll take out my score tonight with joy and trepidation. “And He Shall Purify” is not for the faint of heart. Nor is the “Hallelujah Chorus” with its pause right before the end, a trap that has embarrassed more than one singer.  In fact, challenges lurk in every recitative, aria and chorus of this piece.

But I can also predict the joy and gladness that will flood our hearts at the finish — that we, a group of strangers at 7 p.m. will by 8:30 have sung a great masterwork together. Yes, there will be botched runs and missed entrances. But the “hallelujahs” will ring out loud and clear.

(No, we were not singing in National Cathedral … I wish!) 

Gaudete!

Gaudete!

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Yesterday was the Third Sunday of Advent, Gaudete Sunday, with rose-colored vestments and the theme of … rejoice!

And rejoice I shall, starting with today, the birthday not only of Beethoven but also of our own sweet doggie, Copper.  To celebrate the former, I drove to Metro (through sleet and freezing rain) to the sounds of the lovely Archduke Trio, which made the drive almost bearable.

To celebrate the latter, we had a celebration over the weekend, complete with steak and cake. We sang a song and lit a candle and played with the little guy, who had somehow found the squeak toy I bought him and pulled it out of a shopping bag. Can he be smarter than we think? You never know…

Gaudete and happy birthday, birthday boys!

Ugly Sweaters?

Ugly Sweaters?

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For our office party today we’ve been told to wear our Christmas sweaters, “the tackier the better.”  I’m wearing mine, but I doubt it will win the prize — and I hope it doesn’t.

My Christmas sweater was a gift, and it was given with love, so I don’t want it to be skewered. But more to the point, I’m against ugly sweater contests in general because — strange as it sounds — I feel sorry for the sweaters.

I’ve been trying to figure out why that is. Could it be the way I sentimentalize clothing, a habit that has filled my closet with items that would be better off at Goodwill? Or could it be deeper than that?

Christmas sweaters, like Jello salad and green bean casserole, speak of an earlier, less ironic era. Could it be that in satirizing sweaters with appliqués and rick-rack we’re announcing that we’re beyond such froufrou — even though we’re following the fashion of our era just as rigidly. (Will we someday have ripped jean contests — the more ripped the better?)

Seems to me that with all there is to celebrate at the holidays, choosing to belittle something (even something that’s asking for it) is a poor use of our time.  I know, I know. Lighten up — it’s just a sweater. But maybe … it’s more.


(This is not my sweater. It’s from an invitation to an ugly sweater contest.)

Light the Lights

Light the Lights

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Every year the lights matter more. Every year I wait for them, for certain houses that I know will pull out all the stops. With them we shake our tiny fists at the darkness. With them, we remind ourselves that spring will come again.

One house I pass on the way to Metro drips with soft white icicle lights. The bevy of bulbs transform this simple two-story into a fairy cottage.  It’s the slant of the roof and the way the house is tucked into the trees that does it. I could imagine Hansel and Gretel wandering up, expecting it to be made of gingerbread and marzipan. How kind of the occupants to leave the lights on till morning so we early commuters can be enchanted too.

I wonder if people know how much their efforts gladden the souls of passers-by. In that way lights are a visual reminder of how kindness spreads — from one harried heart to another.

Winter Lite

Winter Lite

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There are winter days when birds chatter in the hedges and what sun there is feels warm on the face. Holly berries gleam, set off by the occasional flash of scarlet from a cardinal.

I think of these days as “winter lite.” There is still a texture to them. They don’t yet have the scoured look and acrid smell of January cold. Yesterday was one of these days: it started cold but finished bright and sunny. Downy woodpeckers discovered the suet block and chickadees chittered at the feeder.

We bought our Christmas tree at a lovely church lot, rather than driving an hour west of here to cut it down. It was a welcome change — carols rang out over the parking lot and eager Boy Scouts put the tree on top of our car.

Winter lite: I’ll take it.

Appreciating Advent

Appreciating Advent

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It’s the first day of December and the first Sunday of Advent, and I’ve been trying to remember the last time we had such a tidy confluence. With Christmas on a Wednesday, that means each Advent Sunday will have its due, too.

I love Advent — the medieval-sounding hymns, the plain purple vestments, the wreaths and calendars, the air of joyful expectation.  Advent is about preparation, and I love that, too, because it reminds me that there are things worth waiting for and they are all the sweeter once they arrive.

Advent is often lost in the shuffle, folded into the Christmas season, but it has much to offer on its own. It reminds us to plan and anticipate, to watch and wonder, to read and reflect — and to do all of that secure in the knowledge that what we search for we will find, what we long for will be given to us.