December 19, 2011 § 7 Comments
Except for a very painful hand surgery my husband had in September, 2011 has been a straight stretch of river that flowed smoothly, allowing us to go on about our usual business of growing vegetables, singing, building fires in our wood stove, writing stories, talking to our dog Moo, watching our grandson acquire language—and opinions.
And each week I have posted to this blog, often wondering what I would write about–until I noticed a spider or remembered some long-gone uncle and found a place to begin.
My husband, Ray, saw each of these essays first, sometimes questioning my premise, always holding me accountable for making sense. When a post passed that test I’d take a deep breath and click “Publish.”
And then it was your turn.
All of you who have read this blog and commented have enriched my year immeasurably with thoughtful conversation. When I started Slow Dance Journal I never anticipated the wealth of stories I would hear, the philosophical wonderings the posts would elicit, or the fact that a community built in the air could feel so real, so present.
Thank you. You have given me new things to think about and confirmed my belief that telling the story of what it means to be human and alive is a collective venture.
May this holiday season bring visits from those we love, if only in memory. I know my grandmother, Nana, will be at my elbow when I make the traditional Christmas pound cake. The Swedish aunts and uncles will once again argue over the right time to put the lid on the pot of flaming glogg (the aunts enjoying the beauty of the flames, the uncles wanting to preserve the alcohol).
May this season bring us closer to friends almost forgotten, lonely neighbors, strangers encountered on the road. May we slow down enough to let the spirit of the holidays overtake us.
May we hang our hearts with the same abandon and generosity we hang ornaments, putting them within easy reach, accessible to chance encounter.
May we face the future with open arms and an understanding that even the most ordinary day is a gift.
Best wishes fellow travelers.
Note: The homemade wooden cat, circa 1925, was my dad’s, probably made by an uncle. If I were to speculate, I’d say that uncle was Teddy, the carpenter in a trio of brothers who all went into “the trades.” The cat was the kind of Christmas gift you could find a pattern for in a magazine. The eyes are thumbtacks, the nose, is the head of a nail. The nail itself is the fulcrum which allows the cat to cock its head and wag its tail–as if a cat were undignified enough to wag.