December twenty-seventh. The anticipation
and excitement of Christmas and New Years are past. So ephemeral. The Christmas
tree in the living room looks superfluous and lonely. I feel at loose ends. I want
to write but nothing sparks my interest. The only thing that occurs to me is to
write down my thoughts as I wander about in this limbo state.
Tendinitis in my right hip has
hindered my usual activity for several months. I’m frustrated with not being able
to take my frequent walks through the park to the canal and back. This
inactivity drives me to eat, dangerous when Christmas cookies and my Scottish
shortbread call to me from their tins. The combination of little activity and
sweet-gorging is the perfect recipe for an expanding waistline. Each morning I awake
with the intention of this being the first of many no-sugar days. But my willpower flags.
Today I finish the book
my son gave me for Christmas, “The Dark Road,” by Mai Jian. It leaves me
perplexed. There must be some symbolism or underlying metaphoric threads I just
don’t get. The graphic descriptions of how the Chinese suffered under the
country’s One Child Family Planning Policy are deeply disturbing. But why can’t
the author grant his main characters some peace or grace as their story comes
to a close? I turn to a book of short
stories set in Rumania. Again the tale I read leaves me wondering. Not a
glimmer of hope for the two main characters and no hint of resolution - a
maddening technique of many writers.
Determined to find
meaning in this day, I move to my study. Maybe if I sit in front of the computer
and just start writing?
First I reach for the round brass
pen and pencil holder on my desk. On the back of a bill I try out each pen.
Five are dry. This is my feeble start to my resolution for a less cluttered
2017.
Before I write, I’ll call Ann. We
haven’t talked since before Christmas. But her husband says she’s out and won’t
be home until late.
I’ve been tossing around the idea of
writing about New Years. New Year’s Eve and the prospect of a new year don’t excite me. I can’t relate
to the crowds of people cheering, dancing and hugging in the plazas. During
this week of amorphous time, I do reflect upon the past year. I enjoy following
the television news and newspaper reports summing up the year – the good and
the bad. I’ll leaf through my year’s
agenda book to remind my aging memory of events that marked my year: birthdays,
doctor appointments, travels. My year has been a good one and I am grateful. As
for the upcoming year, I will begin each day as I always do with prayers of
thanksgiving and petitions for blessings for my loved ones, along with the
determination to say no to sugar and to clean out at least one drawer. In
urgent need of downsizing is my collection of tee-shirts.
These unstructured days I enjoy
observing bee activity in my garden. Bees have their favorite blooms. The
native Llaupangue was the main
attraction a few weeks ago. Now they harvest the pollen from the deep purple blossoms
of the buddleia or butterfly bush and the dainty white flowers of the ilan-ilan. Such industrious little guys.
I stop to examine my heirloom tomato
plants, poking my nose into the leaves. Such a distinctive, pungent scent that
evokes visions of red, juicy, savory tomatoes at summer’s end, not those wimpy,
tasteless greenhouse specimens we buy at the supermarket.
I welcome birds into our garden;
even sprinkling about Christmas cookie crumbs in the grass. But, now, the
ripening apricots are the source of contention between me and the austral
thrushes. The greedy fellows spear the not-quite-ripe fruits with their pointy
beaks knocking them to the ground. I shouldn’t fret about it; there’s plenty
for all, including for Speedy, our tortoise.
Today I take time to read some of
Maria Popova’s Brain Pickings newsletters that have accumulated in my Inbox.
The rich essays and book reviews overwhelm with their weighty thoughts. So much
to absorb and reflect upon, and I’ll retain very little. But I pick out one
small jewel. Hermann Hesse: trees “are the most penetrating of preachers.”
One end-of-the-year pleasure I look
forward to is opening my new calendar of Molly Hashimoto’s block prints,
portraying peaceful scenes of birds in their natural habitats. I love calendars
and the promise they hold for the next year. Each month a different vibrantly-colored
feathered friend will greet my days.
The doorbell. I see a figure
standing outside our gate and open the door. It’s Ann! We retreat to the back
garden with glasses of cold water and samples of my Christmas baking for her to
try. Naturally, I have some, too.
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