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Peas 'n' Bubbly

12/31/2012

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WISHING A GLORIOUS NEW YEAR TO ALL OF YOU!

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Under the Shelter of the Christmas Eaves

12/24/2012

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My mom's stocking. Now mine.

I love Christmas Eve.

After a month or more of bustle, it is a day of quiet. And whether or not I've accomplished all the things I set out to do, the timer has dinged. Hands in the air—it's all done.

The sun, what little there may have been of it, disappears swiftly. The air seizes with cold; the night is gathered breath. The cars angling home from work or late shopping relax on the road. Tiny lights brighten one house, then another. Anticipation is a thing that can almost be held.

I'm not romantic about Christmas. The traditions of my childhood were non-descript and benign. The holidays of my adulthood have been overstated or bland, depending on the year, my meandering mood. This year there's a wreath on the front door, some pink-foiled chocolates in a purple dish. Holiday cards are propped here and there, a few gifts rest on a table, and two handmade stockings adorn the mantel. The fireplace is a gas one, but I'm pretty certain that the jolly fellow in the red suit will somehow find his way in to drop off a few treats. Such an easy confidence this evening inspires.

The speakers in the department stores have been piping out music that tells me my Christmas will be merry and bright. But I haven't done a thing to earn or guarantee that. It's just luck, pure dumb luck, this gift of another year that I'm able to be warm at home, surrounded by reminders from those who care that I hold a special place in their lives.

For me, that's the real Christmas miracle.

I wish a joyous holiday season to everyone, no matter how you celebrate it . . .

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In the Wake

12/17/2012

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I spent a good deal of time this morning deciding what I should write about. Once I realized that I wasn't deciding, but debating, my answer came clear.

There is nothing I can put on this page today that will stand against the weight of the tragedy in Newtown, so I offer here what I have—my silence.

If you have not already done so, please consider listening to Yusef Komunyakaa read his poem, Rock Me, Mercy.

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Whodunnit? Or, Who Didn't Do It?

12/13/2012

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Look, Ma . . . No Blog!

You can blame me
or
you can . . .

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Wonder of Wonder, Miracle of Miracles

12/4/2012

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Our new little bundle of joy

Now that St. James's Palace has announced that the Duchess of Cambridge is with heir, the eyes of the tabloid world will be even more fixed upon the royal waistline.

This is good news for my household, which will now surely fly under radar, even with the exciting news of the recent arrival of the as-yet-unnamed joy-bundle pictured here, fuzzy and diminutive pop-fusion of Hello Kitty and Oregon Duck fan.

Those in the know will "get" the significance of Hello Kitty to my modest universe. Even those not in the know will (or should!) get the significance of the Ducks. But while those two elements add a fun-factor to the new addition, here's the detail that's really worth mentioning: Duck-fan Kitty was a gift.

Sometime this week, between the cornucopia of indulgence that is Thanksgiving and the obligatory slam-shop and wrap-panic of Christmas, a friend stood in front of a store display, saw this greening goddess packed into her form-fitting tee and thought of us. Not because ours were names to scratch off a long list of names, not because of some mandatory pretzel-knot of indulgence and gift-giving, but simply because there was joy in the moment of making that connection, joy in the moment of the anticipated receiving. Duck-fan Kitty was a gift from the heart.

This can be a pretty thrilling time of year, fat-bellied with good feelings and gravy-stain-deep in tradition. But one date or another on the calendar's grid ought not be the driving force for letting someone know just how important she or he is to you. Our beloveds, for certain. But don't forget the butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker. You matter. That's the gift each of us carries every single time we're birthed into a new day.

I don't forget you're out there, My Readers. Happy today.

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Nancy Carol Moody

I'm a poet and a letter-writer. Yup, that kind. The kind who uses pens and paper and actual stamps. The kind who will leave the house with nothing on the agenda but to get to the mailbox before the scheduled pick-up time. The kind who understands that technology is a wondrous thing, but nothing quite beats finding a real letter with a real stamp on it amid the credit card solicitations, pizza coupons and seminar catalogs.

Peas 'n' Bubbly

Under the Shelter of the Christmas Eaves

In the Wake

Whodunnit? Or, Who Didn't Do It?

Wonder of Wonder, Miracle of Miracles

Nancy Carol Moody

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