And take me disappearing through the smoke rings of my mind Down the foggy ruins of time Far past the frozen leaves The haunted, frightened trees Out to the windy beach Far from the twisted reach Of crazy sorrow
the nature of january is cold, raw, it’s bottoming out, the point of nothingness, dare we say hopeless, when there’s nothing left to hold onto but the skeletal remains of what’s eating away at us.
Every New Years Day, my mom took down the tree. Always, as if it was required. In a few days, though, I knew it would be Christmas again.
When I was little…four, five, six years old…we celebrated a second Christmas after the first one was done. My mother’s side of the family celebrated Christmas on the feast of the Epiphany, January 6, and for a kid, that’s great. We didn’t get presents again, but we knew after we finished the December 25th Christmas, we’d get to go to my grandparents’ house on the 6th and celebrate again…cousins, aunts, uncles…eat, sing, play…food and fun!
Our memories from childhood are pictures, aren’t they?
I see me sitting with my cousins on the stairs off my grandparents’ kitchen. Laughing, making noise, keeping an eye on the grown-ups in the kitchen. I see my grandmother bustling around her big old stove and lots of people scattered around the kitchen table. I see the block of soft yellow butter my grandmother kept in a white metal cabinet…the silly details we hold onto.
Then there’s the boxy living room. Two couches. One against the wall with the TV. A second couch on the opposite wall. And a single small picture hanging over that couch, Jesus knocking on a door.
My five uncles are gathered at the couch by the TV. Four of them sitting, looking up to the uncle who is standing, facing them. He’s directing them, sort of like their choir director. They’re singing Christmas carols, harmonizing, and the rest of us are on the other side of the room, the audience. Now it’s time for Hark the Herald Angels Sing. They need to get in tune because the song starts strong, with a hark. The uncle who’s directing asks them to sound their harks, and they do. Hark…hark…hark…hark. Again, seriously. Hark…hark…hark…hark. That’s when they start giggling. Yes, grown men giggle. So my uncle repeats, a bit sternly, sound your harks! And they go for it, this time with bad, goofy bad, silly harks.
At that point, it all falls apart, and we laugh til our sides hurt.
Enjoy your day. Take a minuteto laugh, and giggle, and for sure, sound your harks.
For the parts of us that want to sleep. Sleep deep, and out from the grab of reality. Sleep as long as it takes for acceptance to numb perceptions.
I guess the silent hibernation of a hard cold winter will be here soon enough, but there is a glimpse, a blink, a desperate longing, for something quiet to hold onto.
winter shines watery, clear, like a looking glass, but not quite, like looking outside, through one of those old, very old, glass window panes, everything looking glazy, just a bit off, swirly and wavy.
Tall oak trees stretch into shadows. Long shadows that sweep all the way down the hill, and across the yard. Giant shadows from towering trees.
The white light of the moon, though, finds its way past the shadows and scatters its magic. Its matte cottony glow blankets the leafy ground, reaches up into the house, and comes to rest on the window sill. Here. Right here where I stand. It comes to rest right here on the window sill, just in front of me.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
A full moon on a clear winter night, after the trees have dropped their leaves, has its own special charm. One I’ve never captured well in a picture. The ground was so white I thought we had a fresh round of snowfall.
etikser 