Photo by Mika Baumeister on Unsplash

I’m deeply embarrassed to tell you this, but I used to watch “Keeping Up With The Kardashians” as a guilty pleasure. I found it fascinating, the idea of people becoming rich and famous due to social media. It wasn’t something I found relatable at all until they aired an episode a few years ago that was way too much like my old life.

I would like to dismiss 2021 as a terrible, no-good, very bad year, a year to be sept away and forgotten as quickly as possible. After all, it was a year that began with the insurrection and was quickly followed by my ALS diagnosis. Dire on both the public and private fronts. Such a year can’t possibly have been anything other than bad. And yet — it was also the year that I not only had a new book published, I also sold two new books (on the same day!) to come out in 2022. More importantly, it was a year in which I connected in a deeply heartfelt way with so many friends, old and new, near and far. So, as is so often the case with not only years, but life experiences in general, 2021 was a mixed bag.

Still, I feel a need for a cleansing ritual as 2021 comes to a close, an acknowledgment that some things must be cleared away to make way for what comes next. I have a friend and a sister both of whom are avid sweepers. They take their brooms to the floor with such determination and ferocity it is almost scary — you would not want to be a crumb in their paths. I would trust both of them to sweep out the toxins of 2021 and prepare a clean slate for us going forward. I’ll let you know if they rent out their services.

When my husband and I moved, sixteen years ago, to the house where we currently live, neighbors eyed us warily then came over to check us out. They were amazingly direct about hoping we were good people, because the residents who preceded us were definitely not. Those people had harassed the African American kid across the street. They had amassed piles of glass-laden junk that they expected Goodwill to cart away. They irked the postwoman, the utility person, the telephone guy. Everyone had a story of malfeasance. They were all relieved this extended family had moved out.

Several people suggested a saging ceremony was in order, and I, as a lover of ritual, thought *why not. *So we obtained some sage and burned it in a short ceremony in which we said some words about hoping to made the atmosphere of the property more positive and loving. It seems to have worked, as all traces of the former residents’ bad juju seem to have disappeared, and our years here have been happy, including very enjoyable and mutually helpful relationships with our neighbors.

Sweeping and saging are both great rituals to take us over the threshold into 2022. It is, of course, a completely arbitrary crossing, but because we, as human beings, are meaning makers, it doesn’t feel that way, much as we (I) often try to tell ourselves that the celebration of a new year is manufactured. Why do we do this crazy celebrating with drunkenness and resolutions we know we won’t make good on? Because, I think, a new year gives hope a new platform. The things we hope and wish for seem to have a greater likelihood of coming to pass in the shiny new year than they did in the nasty old one.

When I met my now-husband, he had been reading the Tao Te Ching, and he wanted to warn me about the dangers of hope (the hope of being published was then in our sightlines). The Tao Te Ching warns us against the danger and fallacy of hope. “Hope is as hollow as fear,” says the Stephen Mitchell translation. Or, as my husband put it, “Hope is the flip side of despair.” The Tao eschews hope because of its relationship to selfhood which is reputed to be the cause of human suffering. To hope sets us up for disappointment.

After many years of thinking about this, and weighing the pros and cons of hope, I would humbly take issue with this Taoist point of view. I think most human beings need hope to carry on through life’s plentiful challenges. We need to feel that our lives, and the world in general, might improve. Without hope the motivation for doing much, beyond going to work, would quickly dissipate. Why exercise if you don’t hope to improve your health. Why do volunteer work if you don’t hope that someone will benefit. Hope has been a powerful force in the accomplishments of so many great liberation movements. Women and blacks would not have achieved the right to vote were it not for some people with very strong hope. People dared to hope, as Barack Obama knew. We need to hope without getting attached to specific outcomes, but we can’t give up on the entire idea of hope, which is endlessly renewable.

January is named for the Roman god Janus, guardian of doorways and transitions, who is depicted with two faces, one looking forward and one looking back. It’s almost impossible not to do both at this time of year, reflecting back to sweep out the horrors of 2021, and looking ahead with hope for better things in 2022.

As I try to expunge the bad juju of the insurrection and my diagnosis, I am keenly involved in looking ahead with hope and optimism: I’m hoping to be alive and mobile when my books come out in August and September, I’m hoping to get to Denver to see my grandniece after she is born in February, I am hoping to hold onto my manual dexterity for the continued writing of fiction and this blog, I am hoping Congress passes the voting rights bills, I am hoping to continue communicating with as many friends as possible. And finally, I am hoping I can make peace with whatever of these hopes don’t materialize.

I wish you all a smooth transition as you sweep and sage and make the most of hope.

Photo by the author, 2021

When I was 12 years old, my grandmother taught me how to make gum wrapper chains. It’s easy to do: you fold a candy wrapper into a rectangle with two flaps, fold it across the center, and thread another of the same through it. Do this enough times and you end up with a zigzag-shaped garland. I worked on it all the time, folding new sections from a bag of brightly colored wrappers saved for me by family and friends. By winter it was maybe 10 feet long, and we put it on the Christmas tree. My parents hung it on the tree every year after that, until the paper weakened from age and it separated into several pieces. I still have a section of it, packed away deep in a storage unit.

When I moved away from home to college, we began the tradition of driving to the Catskills on the morning before Christmas every year, to attend my parent’s Christmas Eve party and then visit with Cody’s on Christmas Day.

One year I baked an apple pie for my father — his favorite. I tuned the recipe to emulate a legendary apple pie a woman in our neighborhood used to make when I was a kid. It had an impossibly buttery crust and a cinnamon spiced filling with chunks of apples were just soft — not too crunchy, not mush. I hoped mine would do justice to those memories. The family declared it a success; My dad liked it so much I promised I’d always do it, and I did. Every year it’s been the same — bake pies, wrap presents, drive to the Catskills. Well, until recently.

Another reliable mark of the season was Christmas cards. I always enjoyed getting them in the mail, these little touchpoints of contact from friends and family near and far. Many years ago, I got a linoleum block and cut a winter scene — a rabbit in snowy woods — and set out to hand print our own cards. I worked in the drafty carriage barn, using a rolling pin to press art paper against an inky block until I made fifty cards. I wanted to continue the tradition moving forward, but like so many high effort projects I gave up after that first year. However, I did keep up with sending regular cards — personalized, with a picture of the pets, or some sort of snowy scene. It was a ritual — I’d pick a photo around Thanksgiving and order them in late November, then when they arrived I’d take an afternoon to address them and drop them in a mailbox on the way to work. I’d keep all the cards we received in return on the mantle in our living room — first in our apartment, and then later our house — until New Year’s.

I didn’t send any cards in 2020. A lot of people didn’t — I suppose no one felt like writing Christmas letters or picking a photo from that sad year.

We did do a few small things. My main effort was to make a wreath; we didn’t have any pines at the old farmhouse property, so we wandered a nearby state forest to cut some inconspicuous branches. I tied them to a wreath form, wrapped it with a velvet bow, and put it on our front door. We didn’t do gifts for each other, and only bought a few for close family. We saw people separately, for short visits, a few days before Christmas. Christmas Day we spent alone. I was still reeling from my first miscarriage and we struggled to find something on television that wasn’t a celebration of kids or family. I think we gave up, and went to bed early.

This year I realize how much I missed all of it — even the things I used to gripe about, like waiting in line at a crowded co-op to buy apples or staying up until midnight to bake pies. We do things for holidays that take more effort and time than we’d normally consider reasonable — elaborate meals, decorations that get unpacked and hung for only a few weeks, gifts painstakingly wrapped and ribbon-ed. I’ve come to realize that we do it because we secretly love these things, but we need an excuse to do them. We need a holiday to inspire us to make the effort that special things require.

This year I am doing more. While there aren’t any big gatherings in our future, I’ve revived some of the old traditions. I bought and mailed cards — more than I’ve ever sent before. We got presents for each other. I ordered a gingerbread house kit in the mail. And, for the first time, we got a tree.

We’ve never had a tree before, not even a fake one. We tried once years ago with a little potted one, but our then-spry cats refused to leave it alone and we had to lock it away in a guest bedroom.

This year we walked across the brook and into a meadow with a hacksaw, and worked together to cut a fresh tree from our property. It’s a sizable pine — taller than me, and wide with dense branches. We dragged it back up through the big field and put it in the flatbed. “Do you think the animals will mess with it?” I said. “Maybe,” Cody said. “But let’s try anyway.”

So the tree sits in the living room now. Miraculously, the animals leave it alone. Our ornaments are still all in storage, but I did buy lights. I went traditional and got candy colored ones — like we had on the tree when I was a kid. The other night I walked Gracie down by the lake and looked up to see them glowing through our living room windows. It looked like any other year, at Christmas.

I dropped most of my cards in the mail last week, and a few more this week. Coming back from the mailbox the other day, I spied a large box at the end of the driveway. “Are you expecting anything?” I asked — we’re careful not to ruin the surprise of presents ordered by mail.

“My parents said they were sending something,” Cody said. “But it’s not a Christmas present. They said we should open it now.”

Inside were two boxes of dozens of Christmas ornaments, from their own collection. “They’re for our tree. So we can decorate it this year.”

So now our tree sits in the living room, glowing with its colorful fairy lights, flush with borrowed ornaments from so many past Christmases. I turn the lights on every day in the morning, and off at night. As I work at my desk throughout the day, I look over at it, this unmistakable symbol of winter, of Christmas, of the end of the year.

It was a special gift, made that way through thought, and care, and effort. Like all the best holiday traditions.

Photo by the author, 2021

When I was 12 years old, my grandmother taught me how to make gum wrapper chains. It’s easy to do: you fold a candy wrapper into a rectangle with two flaps, fold it across the center, and thread another of the same through it. Do this enough times and you end up with a zigzag-shaped garland. I worked on it all the time, folding new sections from a bag of brightly colored wrappers saved for me by family and friends. By winter it was maybe 10 feet long, and we put it on the Christmas tree. My parents hung it on the tree every year after that, until the paper weakened from age and it separated into several pieces. I still have a section of it, packed away deep in a storage unit.

When I moved away from home to college, we began the tradition of driving to the Catskills on the morning before Christmas every year, to attend my parent’s Christmas Eve party and then visit with Cody’s on Christmas Day.

One year I baked an apple pie for my father — his favorite. I tuned the recipe to emulate a legendary apple pie a woman in our neighborhood used to make when I was a kid. It had an impossibly buttery crust and a cinnamon spiced filling with chunks of apples were just soft — not too crunchy, not mush. I hoped mine would do justice to those memories. The family declared it a success; My dad liked it so much I promised I’d always do it, and I did. Every year it’s been the same — bake pies, wrap presents, drive to the Catskills. Well, until recently.

Another reliable mark of the season was Christmas cards. I always enjoyed getting them in the mail, these little touchpoints of contact from friends and family near and far. Many years ago, I got a linoleum block and cut a winter scene — a rabbit in snowy woods — and set out to hand print our own cards. I worked in the drafty carriage barn, using a rolling pin to press art paper against an inky block until I made fifty cards. I wanted to continue the tradition moving forward, but like so many high effort projects I gave up after that first year. However, I did keep up with sending regular cards — personalized, with a picture of the pets, or some sort of snowy scene. It was a ritual — I’d pick a photo around Thanksgiving and order them in late November, then when they arrived I’d take an afternoon to address them and drop them in a mailbox on the way to work. I’d keep all the cards we received in return on the mantle in our living room — first in our apartment, and then later our house — until New Year’s.

I didn’t send any cards in 2020. A lot of people didn’t — I suppose no one felt like writing Christmas letters or picking a photo from that sad year.

We did do a few small things. My main effort was to make a wreath; we didn’t have any pines at the old farmhouse property, so we wandered a nearby state forest to cut some inconspicuous branches. I tied them to a wreath form, wrapped it with a velvet bow, and put it on our front door. We didn’t do gifts for each other, and only bought a few for close family. We saw people separately, for short visits, a few days before Christmas. Christmas Day we spent alone. I was still reeling from my first miscarriage and we struggled to find something on television that wasn’t a celebration of kids or family. I think we gave up, and went to bed early.

This year I realize how much I missed all of it — even the things I used to gripe about, like waiting in line at a crowded co-op to buy apples or staying up until midnight to bake pies. We do things for holidays that take more effort and time than we’d normally consider reasonable — elaborate meals, decorations that get unpacked and hung for only a few weeks, gifts painstakingly wrapped and ribbon-ed. I’ve come to realize that we do it because we secretly love these things, but we need an excuse to do them. We need a holiday to inspire us to make the effort that special things require.

This year I am doing more. While there aren’t any big gatherings in our future, I’ve revived some of the old traditions. I bought and mailed cards — more than I’ve ever sent before. We got presents for each other. I ordered a gingerbread house kit in the mail. And, for the first time, we got a tree.

We’ve never had a tree before, not even a fake one. We tried once years ago with a little potted one, but our then-spry cats refused to leave it alone and we had to lock it away in a guest bedroom.

This year we walked across the brook and into a meadow with a hacksaw, and worked together to cut a fresh tree from our property. It’s a sizable pine — taller than me, and wide with dense branches. We dragged it back up through the big field and put it in the flatbed. “Do you think the animals will mess with it?” I said. “Maybe,” Cody said. “But let’s try anyway.”

So the tree sits in the living room now. Miraculously, the animals leave it alone. Our ornaments are still all in storage, but I did buy lights. I went traditional and got candy colored ones — like we had on the tree when I was a kid. The other night I walked Gracie down by the lake and looked up to see them glowing through our living room windows. It looked like any other year, at Christmas.

I dropped most of my cards in the mail last week, and a few more this week. Coming back from the mailbox the other day, I spied a large box at the end of the driveway. “Are you expecting anything?” I asked — we’re careful not to ruin the surprise of presents ordered by mail.

“My parents said they were sending something,” Cody said. “But it’s not a Christmas present. They said we should open it now.”

Inside were two boxes of dozens of Christmas ornaments, from their own collection. “They’re for our tree. So we can decorate it this year.”

So now our tree sits in the living room, glowing with its colorful fairy lights, flush with borrowed ornaments from so many past Christmases. I turn the lights on every day in the morning, and off at night. As I work at my desk throughout the day, I look over at it, this unmistakable symbol of winter, of Christmas, of the end of the year.

It was a special gift, made that way through thought, and care, and effort. Like all the best holiday traditions.

Photo by the author, 2021

When I was 12 years old, my grandmother taught me how to make gum wrapper chains. It’s easy to do: you fold a candy wrapper into a rectangle with two flaps, fold it across the center, and thread another of the same through it. Do this enough times and you end up with a zigzag-shaped garland. I worked on it all the time, folding new sections from a bag of brightly colored wrappers saved for me by family and friends. By winter it was maybe 10 feet long, and we put it on the Christmas tree. My parents hung it on the tree every year after that, until the paper weakened from age and it separated into several pieces. I still have a section of it, packed away deep in a storage unit.

When I moved away from home to college, we began the tradition of driving to the Catskills on the morning before Christmas every year, to attend my parent’s Christmas Eve party and then visit with Cody’s on Christmas Day.

One year I baked an apple pie for my father — his favorite. I tuned the recipe to emulate a legendary apple pie a woman in our neighborhood used to make when I was a kid. It had an impossibly buttery crust and a cinnamon spiced filling with chunks of apples were just soft — not too crunchy, not mush. I hoped mine would do justice to those memories. The family declared it a success; My dad liked it so much I promised I’d always do it, and I did. Every year it’s been the same — bake pies, wrap presents, drive to the Catskills. Well, until recently.

Another reliable mark of the season was Christmas cards. I always enjoyed getting them in the mail, these little touchpoints of contact from friends and family near and far. Many years ago, I got a linoleum block and cut a winter scene — a rabbit in snowy woods — and set out to hand print our own cards. I worked in the drafty carriage barn, using a rolling pin to press art paper against an inky block until I made fifty cards. I wanted to continue the tradition moving forward, but like so many high effort projects I gave up after that first year. However, I did keep up with sending regular cards — personalized, with a picture of the pets, or some sort of snowy scene. It was a ritual — I’d pick a photo around Thanksgiving and order them in late November, then when they arrived I’d take an afternoon to address them and drop them in a mailbox on the way to work. I’d keep all the cards we received in return on the mantle in our living room — first in our apartment, and then later our house — until New Year’s.

I didn’t send any cards in 2020. A lot of people didn’t — I suppose no one felt like writing Christmas letters or picking a photo from that sad year.

We did do a few small things. My main effort was to make a wreath; we didn’t have any pines at the old farmhouse property, so we wandered a nearby state forest to cut some inconspicuous branches. I tied them to a wreath form, wrapped it with a velvet bow, and put it on our front door. We didn’t do gifts for each other, and only bought a few for close family. We saw people separately, for short visits, a few days before Christmas. Christmas Day we spent alone. I was still reeling from my first miscarriage and we struggled to find something on television that wasn’t a celebration of kids or family. I think we gave up, and went to bed early.

This year I realize how much I missed all of it — even the things I used to gripe about, like waiting in line at a crowded co-op to buy apples or staying up until midnight to bake pies. We do things for holidays that take more effort and time than we’d normally consider reasonable — elaborate meals, decorations that get unpacked and hung for only a few weeks, gifts painstakingly wrapped and ribbon-ed. I’ve come to realize that we do it because we secretly love these things, but we need an excuse to do them. We need a holiday to inspire us to make the effort that special things require.

This year I am doing more. While there aren’t any big gatherings in our future, I’ve revived some of the old traditions. I bought and mailed cards — more than I’ve ever sent before. We got presents for each other. I ordered a gingerbread house kit in the mail. And, for the first time, we got a tree.

We’ve never had a tree before, not even a fake one. We tried once years ago with a little potted one, but our then-spry cats refused to leave it alone and we had to lock it away in a guest bedroom.

This year we walked across the brook and into a meadow with a hacksaw, and worked together to cut a fresh tree from our property. It’s a sizable pine — taller than me, and wide with dense branches. We dragged it back up through the big field and put it in the flatbed. “Do you think the animals will mess with it?” I said. “Maybe,” Cody said. “But let’s try anyway.”

So the tree sits in the living room now. Miraculously, the animals leave it alone. Our ornaments are still all in storage, but I did buy lights. I went traditional and got candy colored ones — like we had on the tree when I was a kid. The other night I walked Gracie down by the lake and looked up to see them glowing through our living room windows. It looked like any other year, at Christmas.

I dropped most of my cards in the mail last week, and a few more this week. Coming back from the mailbox the other day, I spied a large box at the end of the driveway. “Are you expecting anything?” I asked — we’re careful not to ruin the surprise of presents ordered by mail.

“My parents said they were sending something,” Cody said. “But it’s not a Christmas present. They said we should open it now.”

Inside were two boxes of dozens of Christmas ornaments, from their own collection. “They’re for our tree. So we can decorate it this year.”

So now our tree sits in the living room, glowing with its colorful fairy lights, flush with borrowed ornaments from so many past Christmases. I turn the lights on every day in the morning, and off at night. As I work at my desk throughout the day, I look over at it, this unmistakable symbol of winter, of Christmas, of the end of the year.

It was a special gift, made that way through thought, and care, and effort. Like all the best holiday traditions.

Photo by the author, 2021

When I was 12 years old, my grandmother taught me how to make gum wrapper chains. It’s easy to do: you fold a candy wrapper into a rectangle with two flaps, fold it across the center, and thread another of the same through it. Do this enough times and you end up with a zigzag-shaped garland. I worked on it all the time, folding new sections from a bag of brightly colored wrappers saved for me by family and friends. By winter it was maybe 10 feet long, and we put it on the Christmas tree. My parents hung it on the tree every year after that, until the paper weakened from age and it separated into several pieces. I still have a section of it, packed away deep in a storage unit.

When I moved away from home to college, we began the tradition of driving to the Catskills on the morning before Christmas every year, to attend my parent’s Christmas Eve party and then visit with Cody’s on Christmas Day.

One year I baked an apple pie for my father — his favorite. I tuned the recipe to emulate a legendary apple pie a woman in our neighborhood used to make when I was a kid. It had an impossibly buttery crust and a cinnamon spiced filling with chunks of apples were just soft — not too crunchy, not mush. I hoped mine would do justice to those memories. The family declared it a success; My dad liked it so much I promised I’d always do it, and I did. Every year it’s been the same — bake pies, wrap presents, drive to the Catskills. Well, until recently.

Another reliable mark of the season was Christmas cards. I always enjoyed getting them in the mail, these little touchpoints of contact from friends and family near and far. Many years ago, I got a linoleum block and cut a winter scene — a rabbit in snowy woods — and set out to hand print our own cards. I worked in the drafty carriage barn, using a rolling pin to press art paper against an inky block until I made fifty cards. I wanted to continue the tradition moving forward, but like so many high effort projects I gave up after that first year. However, I did keep up with sending regular cards — personalized, with a picture of the pets, or some sort of snowy scene. It was a ritual — I’d pick a photo around Thanksgiving and order them in late November, then when they arrived I’d take an afternoon to address them and drop them in a mailbox on the way to work. I’d keep all the cards we received in return on the mantle in our living room — first in our apartment, and then later our house — until New Year’s.

I didn’t send any cards in 2020. A lot of people didn’t — I suppose no one felt like writing Christmas letters or picking a photo from that sad year.

We did do a few small things. My main effort was to make a wreath; we didn’t have any pines at the old farmhouse property, so we wandered a nearby state forest to cut some inconspicuous branches. I tied them to a wreath form, wrapped it with a velvet bow, and put it on our front door. We didn’t do gifts for each other, and only bought a few for close family. We saw people separately, for short visits, a few days before Christmas. Christmas Day we spent alone. I was still reeling from my first miscarriage and we struggled to find something on television that wasn’t a celebration of kids or family. I think we gave up, and went to bed early.

This year I realize how much I missed all of it — even the things I used to gripe about, like waiting in line at a crowded co-op to buy apples or staying up until midnight to bake pies. We do things for holidays that take more effort and time than we’d normally consider reasonable — elaborate meals, decorations that get unpacked and hung for only a few weeks, gifts painstakingly wrapped and ribbon-ed. I’ve come to realize that we do it because we secretly love these things, but we need an excuse to do them. We need a holiday to inspire us to make the effort that special things require.

This year I am doing more. While there aren’t any big gatherings in our future, I’ve revived some of the old traditions. I bought and mailed cards — more than I’ve ever sent before. We got presents for each other. I ordered a gingerbread house kit in the mail. And, for the first time, we got a tree.

We’ve never had a tree before, not even a fake one. We tried once years ago with a little potted one, but our then-spry cats refused to leave it alone and we had to lock it away in a guest bedroom.

This year we walked across the brook and into a meadow with a hacksaw, and worked together to cut a fresh tree from our property. It’s a sizable pine — taller than me, and wide with dense branches. We dragged it back up through the big field and put it in the flatbed. “Do you think the animals will mess with it?” I said. “Maybe,” Cody said. “But let’s try anyway.”

So the tree sits in the living room now. Miraculously, the animals leave it alone. Our ornaments are still all in storage, but I did buy lights. I went traditional and got candy colored ones — like we had on the tree when I was a kid. The other night I walked Gracie down by the lake and looked up to see them glowing through our living room windows. It looked like any other year, at Christmas.

I dropped most of my cards in the mail last week, and a few more this week. Coming back from the mailbox the other day, I spied a large box at the end of the driveway. “Are you expecting anything?” I asked — we’re careful not to ruin the surprise of presents ordered by mail.

“My parents said they were sending something,” Cody said. “But it’s not a Christmas present. They said we should open it now.”

Inside were two boxes of dozens of Christmas ornaments, from their own collection. “They’re for our tree. So we can decorate it this year.”

So now our tree sits in the living room, glowing with its colorful fairy lights, flush with borrowed ornaments from so many past Christmases. I turn the lights on every day in the morning, and off at night. As I work at my desk throughout the day, I look over at it, this unmistakable symbol of winter, of Christmas, of the end of the year.

It was a special gift, made that way through thought, and care, and effort. Like all the best holiday traditions.

Image by Comfreak from Pixabay

I’m sure you’ve experienced those strange moments when you feel like your heart is pulled in opposite directions. There are so many experiences with this double-sided quality, where we feel two emotions at once.

Image by Comfreak from Pixabay

I’m sure you’ve experienced those strange moments when you feel like your heart is pulled in opposite directions. There are so many experiences with this double-sided quality, where we feel two emotions at once.

Image by Comfreak from Pixabay

I’m sure you’ve experienced those strange moments when you feel like your heart is pulled in opposite directions. There are so many experiences with this double-sided quality, where we feel two emotions at once.

Image by Comfreak from Pixabay

I’m sure you’ve experienced those strange moments when you feel like your heart is pulled in opposite directions. There are so many experiences with this double-sided quality, where we feel two emotions at once.

Image by Comfreak from Pixabay

I’m sure you’ve experienced those strange moments when you feel like your heart is pulled in opposite directions. There are so many experiences with this double-sided quality, where we feel two emotions at once.

Image by Comfreak from Pixabay

I’m sure you’ve experienced those strange moments when you feel like your heart is pulled in opposite directions. There are so many experiences with this double-sided quality, where we feel two emotions at once.

Photo by the author, 2021

When I was 12 years old, my grandmother taught me how to make gum wrapper chains. It’s easy to do: you fold a candy wrapper into a rectangle with two flaps, fold it across the center, and thread another of the same through it. Do this enough times and you end up with a zigzag-shaped garland. I worked on it all the time, folding new sections from a bag of brightly colored wrappers saved for me by family and friends. By winter it was maybe 10 feet long, and we put it on the Christmas tree. My parents hung it on the tree every year after that, until the paper weakened from age and it separated into several pieces. I still have a section of it, packed away deep in a storage unit.

When I moved away from home to college, we began the tradition of driving to the Catskills on the morning before Christmas every year, to attend my parent’s Christmas Eve party and then visit with Cody’s on Christmas Day.

One year I baked an apple pie for my father — his favorite. I tuned the recipe to emulate a legendary apple pie a woman in our neighborhood used to make when I was a kid. It had an impossibly buttery crust and a cinnamon spiced filling with chunks of apples were just soft — not too crunchy, not mush. I hoped mine would do justice to those memories. The family declared it a success; My dad liked it so much I promised I’d always do it, and I did. Every year it’s been the same — bake pies, wrap presents, drive to the Catskills. Well, until recently.

Another reliable mark of the season was Christmas cards. I always enjoyed getting them in the mail, these little touchpoints of contact from friends and family near and far. Many years ago, I got a linoleum block and cut a winter scene — a rabbit in snowy woods — and set out to hand print our own cards. I worked in the drafty carriage barn, using a rolling pin to press art paper against an inky block until I made fifty cards. I wanted to continue the tradition moving forward, but like so many high effort projects I gave up after that first year. However, I did keep up with sending regular cards — personalized, with a picture of the pets, or some sort of snowy scene. It was a ritual — I’d pick a photo around Thanksgiving and order them in late November, then when they arrived I’d take an afternoon to address them and drop them in a mailbox on the way to work. I’d keep all the cards we received in return on the mantle in our living room — first in our apartment, and then later our house — until New Year’s.

I didn’t send any cards in 2020. A lot of people didn’t — I suppose no one felt like writing Christmas letters or picking a photo from that sad year.

We did do a few small things. My main effort was to make a wreath; we didn’t have any pines at the old farmhouse property, so we wandered a nearby state forest to cut some inconspicuous branches. I tied them to a wreath form, wrapped it with a velvet bow, and put it on our front door. We didn’t do gifts for each other, and only bought a few for close family. We saw people separately, for short visits, a few days before Christmas. Christmas Day we spent alone. I was still reeling from my first miscarriage and we struggled to find something on television that wasn’t a celebration of kids or family. I think we gave up, and went to bed early.

This year I realize how much I missed all of it — even the things I used to gripe about, like waiting in line at a crowded co-op to buy apples or staying up until midnight to bake pies. We do things for holidays that take more effort and time than we’d normally consider reasonable — elaborate meals, decorations that get unpacked and hung for only a few weeks, gifts painstakingly wrapped and ribbon-ed. I’ve come to realize that we do it because we secretly love these things, but we need an excuse to do them. We need a holiday to inspire us to make the effort that special things require.

This year I am doing more. While there aren’t any big gatherings in our future, I’ve revived some of the old traditions. I bought and mailed cards — more than I’ve ever sent before. We got presents for each other. I ordered a gingerbread house kit in the mail. And, for the first time, we got a tree.

We’ve never had a tree before, not even a fake one. We tried once years ago with a little potted one, but our then-spry cats refused to leave it alone and we had to lock it away in a guest bedroom.

This year we walked across the brook and into a meadow with a hacksaw, and worked together to cut a fresh tree from our property. It’s a sizable pine — taller than me, and wide with dense branches. We dragged it back up through the big field and put it in the flatbed. “Do you think the animals will mess with it?” I said. “Maybe,” Cody said. “But let’s try anyway.”

So the tree sits in the living room now. Miraculously, the animals leave it alone. Our ornaments are still all in storage, but I did buy lights. I went traditional and got candy colored ones — like we had on the tree when I was a kid. The other night I walked Gracie down by the lake and looked up to see them glowing through our living room windows. It looked like any other year, at Christmas.

I dropped most of my cards in the mail last week, and a few more this week. Coming back from the mailbox the other day, I spied a large box at the end of the driveway. “Are you expecting anything?” I asked — we’re careful not to ruin the surprise of presents ordered by mail.

“My parents said they were sending something,” Cody said. “But it’s not a Christmas present. They said we should open it now.”

Inside were two boxes of dozens of Christmas ornaments, from their own collection. “They’re for our tree. So we can decorate it this year.”

So now our tree sits in the living room, glowing with its colorful fairy lights, flush with borrowed ornaments from so many past Christmases. I turn the lights on every day in the morning, and off at night. As I work at my desk throughout the day, I look over at it, this unmistakable symbol of winter, of Christmas, of the end of the year.

It was a special gift, made that way through thought, and care, and effort. Like all the best holiday traditions.

Photo by the author, 2021

When I was 12 years old, my grandmother taught me how to make gum wrapper chains. It’s easy to do: you fold a candy wrapper into a rectangle with two flaps, fold it across the center, and thread another of the same through it. Do this enough times and you end up with a zigzag-shaped garland. I worked on it all the time, folding new sections from a bag of brightly colored wrappers saved for me by family and friends. By winter it was maybe 10 feet long, and we put it on the Christmas tree. My parents hung it on the tree every year after that, until the paper weakened from age and it separated into several pieces. I still have a section of it, packed away deep in a storage unit.

When I moved away from home to college, we began the tradition of driving to the Catskills on the morning before Christmas every year, to attend my parent’s Christmas Eve party and then visit with Cody’s on Christmas Day.

One year I baked an apple pie for my father — his favorite. I tuned the recipe to emulate a legendary apple pie a woman in our neighborhood used to make when I was a kid. It had an impossibly buttery crust and a cinnamon spiced filling with chunks of apples were just soft — not too crunchy, not mush. I hoped mine would do justice to those memories. The family declared it a success; My dad liked it so much I promised I’d always do it, and I did. Every year it’s been the same — bake pies, wrap presents, drive to the Catskills. Well, until recently.

Another reliable mark of the season was Christmas cards. I always enjoyed getting them in the mail, these little touchpoints of contact from friends and family near and far. Many years ago, I got a linoleum block and cut a winter scene — a rabbit in snowy woods — and set out to hand print our own cards. I worked in the drafty carriage barn, using a rolling pin to press art paper against an inky block until I made fifty cards. I wanted to continue the tradition moving forward, but like so many high effort projects I gave up after that first year. However, I did keep up with sending regular cards — personalized, with a picture of the pets, or some sort of snowy scene. It was a ritual — I’d pick a photo around Thanksgiving and order them in late November, then when they arrived I’d take an afternoon to address them and drop them in a mailbox on the way to work. I’d keep all the cards we received in return on the mantle in our living room — first in our apartment, and then later our house — until New Year’s.

I didn’t send any cards in 2020. A lot of people didn’t — I suppose no one felt like writing Christmas letters or picking a photo from that sad year.

We did do a few small things. My main effort was to make a wreath; we didn’t have any pines at the old farmhouse property, so we wandered a nearby state forest to cut some inconspicuous branches. I tied them to a wreath form, wrapped it with a velvet bow, and put it on our front door. We didn’t do gifts for each other, and only bought a few for close family. We saw people separately, for short visits, a few days before Christmas. Christmas Day we spent alone. I was still reeling from my first miscarriage and we struggled to find something on television that wasn’t a celebration of kids or family. I think we gave up, and went to bed early.

This year I realize how much I missed all of it — even the things I used to gripe about, like waiting in line at a crowded co-op to buy apples or staying up until midnight to bake pies. We do things for holidays that take more effort and time than we’d normally consider reasonable — elaborate meals, decorations that get unpacked and hung for only a few weeks, gifts painstakingly wrapped and ribbon-ed. I’ve come to realize that we do it because we secretly love these things, but we need an excuse to do them. We need a holiday to inspire us to make the effort that special things require.

This year I am doing more. While there aren’t any big gatherings in our future, I’ve revived some of the old traditions. I bought and mailed cards — more than I’ve ever sent before. We got presents for each other. I ordered a gingerbread house kit in the mail. And, for the first time, we got a tree.

We’ve never had a tree before, not even a fake one. We tried once years ago with a little potted one, but our then-spry cats refused to leave it alone and we had to lock it away in a guest bedroom.

This year we walked across the brook and into a meadow with a hacksaw, and worked together to cut a fresh tree from our property. It’s a sizable pine — taller than me, and wide with dense branches. We dragged it back up through the big field and put it in the flatbed. “Do you think the animals will mess with it?” I said. “Maybe,” Cody said. “But let’s try anyway.”

So the tree sits in the living room now. Miraculously, the animals leave it alone. Our ornaments are still all in storage, but I did buy lights. I went traditional and got candy colored ones — like we had on the tree when I was a kid. The other night I walked Gracie down by the lake and looked up to see them glowing through our living room windows. It looked like any other year, at Christmas.

I dropped most of my cards in the mail last week, and a few more this week. Coming back from the mailbox the other day, I spied a large box at the end of the driveway. “Are you expecting anything?” I asked — we’re careful not to ruin the surprise of presents ordered by mail.

“My parents said they were sending something,” Cody said. “But it’s not a Christmas present. They said we should open it now.”

Inside were two boxes of dozens of Christmas ornaments, from their own collection. “They’re for our tree. So we can decorate it this year.”

So now our tree sits in the living room, glowing with its colorful fairy lights, flush with borrowed ornaments from so many past Christmases. I turn the lights on every day in the morning, and off at night. As I work at my desk throughout the day, I look over at it, this unmistakable symbol of winter, of Christmas, of the end of the year.

It was a special gift, made that way through thought, and care, and effort. Like all the best holiday traditions.

Photo by the author, 2021

When I was 12 years old, my grandmother taught me how to make gum wrapper chains. It’s easy to do: you fold a candy wrapper into a rectangle with two flaps, fold it across the center, and thread another of the same through it. Do this enough times and you end up with a zigzag-shaped garland. I worked on it all the time, folding new sections from a bag of brightly colored wrappers saved for me by family and friends. By winter it was maybe 10 feet long, and we put it on the Christmas tree. My parents hung it on the tree every year after that, until the paper weakened from age and it separated into several pieces. I still have a section of it, packed away deep in a storage unit.

When I moved away from home to college, we began the tradition of driving to the Catskills on the morning before Christmas every year, to attend my parent’s Christmas Eve party and then visit with Cody’s on Christmas Day.

One year I baked an apple pie for my father — his favorite. I tuned the recipe to emulate a legendary apple pie a woman in our neighborhood used to make when I was a kid. It had an impossibly buttery crust and a cinnamon spiced filling with chunks of apples were just soft — not too crunchy, not mush. I hoped mine would do justice to those memories. The family declared it a success; My dad liked it so much I promised I’d always do it, and I did. Every year it’s been the same — bake pies, wrap presents, drive to the Catskills. Well, until recently.

Another reliable mark of the season was Christmas cards. I always enjoyed getting them in the mail, these little touchpoints of contact from friends and family near and far. Many years ago, I got a linoleum block and cut a winter scene — a rabbit in snowy woods — and set out to hand print our own cards. I worked in the drafty carriage barn, using a rolling pin to press art paper against an inky block until I made fifty cards. I wanted to continue the tradition moving forward, but like so many high effort projects I gave up after that first year. However, I did keep up with sending regular cards — personalized, with a picture of the pets, or some sort of snowy scene. It was a ritual — I’d pick a photo around Thanksgiving and order them in late November, then when they arrived I’d take an afternoon to address them and drop them in a mailbox on the way to work. I’d keep all the cards we received in return on the mantle in our living room — first in our apartment, and then later our house — until New Year’s.

I didn’t send any cards in 2020. A lot of people didn’t — I suppose no one felt like writing Christmas letters or picking a photo from that sad year.

We did do a few small things. My main effort was to make a wreath; we didn’t have any pines at the old farmhouse property, so we wandered a nearby state forest to cut some inconspicuous branches. I tied them to a wreath form, wrapped it with a velvet bow, and put it on our front door. We didn’t do gifts for each other, and only bought a few for close family. We saw people separately, for short visits, a few days before Christmas. Christmas Day we spent alone. I was still reeling from my first miscarriage and we struggled to find something on television that wasn’t a celebration of kids or family. I think we gave up, and went to bed early.

This year I realize how much I missed all of it — even the things I used to gripe about, like waiting in line at a crowded co-op to buy apples or staying up until midnight to bake pies. We do things for holidays that take more effort and time than we’d normally consider reasonable — elaborate meals, decorations that get unpacked and hung for only a few weeks, gifts painstakingly wrapped and ribbon-ed. I’ve come to realize that we do it because we secretly love these things, but we need an excuse to do them. We need a holiday to inspire us to make the effort that special things require.

This year I am doing more. While there aren’t any big gatherings in our future, I’ve revived some of the old traditions. I bought and mailed cards — more than I’ve ever sent before. We got presents for each other. I ordered a gingerbread house kit in the mail. And, for the first time, we got a tree.

We’ve never had a tree before, not even a fake one. We tried once years ago with a little potted one, but our then-spry cats refused to leave it alone and we had to lock it away in a guest bedroom.

This year we walked across the brook and into a meadow with a hacksaw, and worked together to cut a fresh tree from our property. It’s a sizable pine — taller than me, and wide with dense branches. We dragged it back up through the big field and put it in the flatbed. “Do you think the animals will mess with it?” I said. “Maybe,” Cody said. “But let’s try anyway.”

So the tree sits in the living room now. Miraculously, the animals leave it alone. Our ornaments are still all in storage, but I did buy lights. I went traditional and got candy colored ones — like we had on the tree when I was a kid. The other night I walked Gracie down by the lake and looked up to see them glowing through our living room windows. It looked like any other year, at Christmas.

I dropped most of my cards in the mail last week, and a few more this week. Coming back from the mailbox the other day, I spied a large box at the end of the driveway. “Are you expecting anything?” I asked — we’re careful not to ruin the surprise of presents ordered by mail.

“My parents said they were sending something,” Cody said. “But it’s not a Christmas present. They said we should open it now.”

Inside were two boxes of dozens of Christmas ornaments, from their own collection. “They’re for our tree. So we can decorate it this year.”

So now our tree sits in the living room, glowing with its colorful fairy lights, flush with borrowed ornaments from so many past Christmases. I turn the lights on every day in the morning, and off at night. As I work at my desk throughout the day, I look over at it, this unmistakable symbol of winter, of Christmas, of the end of the year.

It was a special gift, made that way through thought, and care, and effort. Like all the best holiday traditions.

Photo by the author, 2021

When I was 12 years old, my grandmother taught me how to make gum wrapper chains. It’s easy to do: you fold a candy wrapper into a rectangle with two flaps, fold it across the center, and thread another of the same through it. Do this enough times and you end up with a zigzag-shaped garland. I worked on it all the time, folding new sections from a bag of brightly colored wrappers saved for me by family and friends. By winter it was maybe 10 feet long, and we put it on the Christmas tree. My parents hung it on the tree every year after that, until the paper weakened from age and it separated into several pieces. I still have a section of it, packed away deep in a storage unit.

When I moved away from home to college, we began the tradition of driving to the Catskills on the morning before Christmas every year, to attend my parent’s Christmas Eve party and then visit with Cody’s on Christmas Day.

One year I baked an apple pie for my father — his favorite. I tuned the recipe to emulate a legendary apple pie a woman in our neighborhood used to make when I was a kid. It had an impossibly buttery crust and a cinnamon spiced filling with chunks of apples were just soft — not too crunchy, not mush. I hoped mine would do justice to those memories. The family declared it a success; My dad liked it so much I promised I’d always do it, and I did. Every year it’s been the same — bake pies, wrap presents, drive to the Catskills. Well, until recently.

Another reliable mark of the season was Christmas cards. I always enjoyed getting them in the mail, these little touchpoints of contact from friends and family near and far. Many years ago, I got a linoleum block and cut a winter scene — a rabbit in snowy woods — and set out to hand print our own cards. I worked in the drafty carriage barn, using a rolling pin to press art paper against an inky block until I made fifty cards. I wanted to continue the tradition moving forward, but like so many high effort projects I gave up after that first year. However, I did keep up with sending regular cards — personalized, with a picture of the pets, or some sort of snowy scene. It was a ritual — I’d pick a photo around Thanksgiving and order them in late November, then when they arrived I’d take an afternoon to address them and drop them in a mailbox on the way to work. I’d keep all the cards we received in return on the mantle in our living room — first in our apartment, and then later our house — until New Year’s.

I didn’t send any cards in 2020. A lot of people didn’t — I suppose no one felt like writing Christmas letters or picking a photo from that sad year.

We did do a few small things. My main effort was to make a wreath; we didn’t have any pines at the old farmhouse property, so we wandered a nearby state forest to cut some inconspicuous branches. I tied them to a wreath form, wrapped it with a velvet bow, and put it on our front door. We didn’t do gifts for each other, and only bought a few for close family. We saw people separately, for short visits, a few days before Christmas. Christmas Day we spent alone. I was still reeling from my first miscarriage and we struggled to find something on television that wasn’t a celebration of kids or family. I think we gave up, and went to bed early.

This year I realize how much I missed all of it — even the things I used to gripe about, like waiting in line at a crowded co-op to buy apples or staying up until midnight to bake pies. We do things for holidays that take more effort and time than we’d normally consider reasonable — elaborate meals, decorations that get unpacked and hung for only a few weeks, gifts painstakingly wrapped and ribbon-ed. I’ve come to realize that we do it because we secretly love these things, but we need an excuse to do them. We need a holiday to inspire us to make the effort that special things require.

This year I am doing more. While there aren’t any big gatherings in our future, I’ve revived some of the old traditions. I bought and mailed cards — more than I’ve ever sent before. We got presents for each other. I ordered a gingerbread house kit in the mail. And, for the first time, we got a tree.

We’ve never had a tree before, not even a fake one. We tried once years ago with a little potted one, but our then-spry cats refused to leave it alone and we had to lock it away in a guest bedroom.

This year we walked across the brook and into a meadow with a hacksaw, and worked together to cut a fresh tree from our property. It’s a sizable pine — taller than me, and wide with dense branches. We dragged it back up through the big field and put it in the flatbed. “Do you think the animals will mess with it?” I said. “Maybe,” Cody said. “But let’s try anyway.”

So the tree sits in the living room now. Miraculously, the animals leave it alone. Our ornaments are still all in storage, but I did buy lights. I went traditional and got candy colored ones — like we had on the tree when I was a kid. The other night I walked Gracie down by the lake and looked up to see them glowing through our living room windows. It looked like any other year, at Christmas.

I dropped most of my cards in the mail last week, and a few more this week. Coming back from the mailbox the other day, I spied a large box at the end of the driveway. “Are you expecting anything?” I asked — we’re careful not to ruin the surprise of presents ordered by mail.

“My parents said they were sending something,” Cody said. “But it’s not a Christmas present. They said we should open it now.”

Inside were two boxes of dozens of Christmas ornaments, from their own collection. “They’re for our tree. So we can decorate it this year.”

So now our tree sits in the living room, glowing with its colorful fairy lights, flush with borrowed ornaments from so many past Christmases. I turn the lights on every day in the morning, and off at night. As I work at my desk throughout the day, I look over at it, this unmistakable symbol of winter, of Christmas, of the end of the year.

It was a special gift, made that way through thought, and care, and effort. Like all the best holiday traditions.

Photo: Chris Montgomery/Unsplash

I’m pretty sure that I’ve attended more meetings in the last twenty months than in the thirty or so years of my pre-2020 working life.

Strides in workplace technology have been a pandemic success story, enabling many people to continue their employment and…

Photo: Chris Montgomery/Unsplash

I’m pretty sure that I’ve attended more meetings in the last twenty months than in the thirty or so years of my pre-2020 working life.

Strides in workplace technology have been a pandemic success story, enabling many people to continue their employment and…

Photo: Chris Montgomery/Unsplash

I’m pretty sure that I’ve attended more meetings in the last twenty months than in the thirty or so years of my pre-2020 working life.

Strides in workplace technology have been a pandemic success story, enabling many people to continue their employment and…

Photo: Chris Montgomery/Unsplash

I’m pretty sure that I’ve attended more meetings in the last twenty months than in the thirty or so years of my pre-2020 working life.

Strides in workplace technology have been a pandemic success story, enabling many people to continue their employment and…