Jingle Bells

All day I've had Christmas songs in my head. Jingle Bells at six in the morning is not good. And just before, while sweeping the driveway at 8:45 at night, O Come All Ye Faithful was looping around. I think it's some kind of disorder, this song thing. I've had it for years. I even Googled songs that play in your head once. There were lots of comments from people, most of them trying to drum the songs out of their heads with Cymbalta or some other drug, like Lyrica?

Don't you think it's odd that these drugs have musical names? And even though they may cause liver bleeding, body rashes, dizzy spells, death, they might cure the songs?

The songs are one of the reasons why I read so much. When I'm reading, the songs go away. There's no room for Barry Manilow's At the Copa Cabana, when I've got my nose in a great read. It doesn't matter what it is: my horoscope, the electric bill, a great novel. Somehow words short circuit any excess matter twisting and shouting in my head.

We Three Kings of Orient Are...

Small Fingers

We are under the covers watching the rain pour down.The backyard is lit in green light, darkness tops the trees. The light is yellow now. It is the afternoon in the middle of the week. I imagine people in their cars speeding down the highway, people working in tall office buildings paneled in clear glass. I move my feet around under the sheet, feeling the cool cloth against my skin. Books are piled up at the end of the bed. We watch the rain. Claire pushes down on my eyelids, pressing them shut with her small fingers. Close your eyes, Mama.Take a nap.

Fred

I must be an emotional archaeologist because I keep looking for the roots of things, particularly the roots of behavior and why I feel certain ways about certain things.

~ from The World According to Mister Rogers

I'm so glad Claire was in kindergarten when it was still a half day affair. She'd get home a little before noon, just in time to watch Mister Roger's Neighborhood. I'd whip up a plate of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with two glasses of cold milk and we'd settle in and watch Mister Rogers burst through the door, a beam of light.

Fred would slip off his blazer, hang it in the closet, pull on his cardigan [and button it], change into his sneakers, all while singing It's A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood...

Mr. McFeeley would stop by, Speedy Delivery!, and drop off a video about how vacuum-cleaners were made, or maybe Fred would meet a friend at the pool who was a champion swimmer even though his legs didn't work too well. There was always music. And make-believe. And all feelings were welcome.

Who knew, that at forty-six, this noon-time ritual would become the anchor for my life, five days a week. I admit I often felt lost on the weekends.

I wish I had written Fred a letter telling him what good work he was doing in the world. That in fact, this was my second time around with him. That Jesse was all grown up, that she had turned out great, and I think he might've had something to do with it.

And I would've told him I was thankful, so thankful, that some things never change.

Like Fred. And his wonderful neighborhood.

I Dig You Baby

In celebration of our thirteenth wedding anniversary, Michael surprised me with this I Dig You Baby ice cream cake. I got my first one when we were courting and I flew to LA to spend Valentine's weekend with him back in February, 1997.

Two I Dig You Baby cakes in one lifetime...

Ain't life grand?

Foot Reflexology

Michael and I were finishing up dinner when he said, "Come with me. We'll clean up after."

I balked at first, feeling the need to clear off the table, fill the dishwasher, wipe the counters.

He took my hand and I trailed after him into the living room. Blankets were spread out on the rug with two green pillows, at opposite ends.

"What's this set-up for?" I asked.

"I thought we'd lie down and put our feet together," he said.

"Okay," I said, "I guess so. I mean, the kitchen is..."

"We'll get it after," he said.

Quietly I resisted. My stomach was too full to lie down and everything was still on the table as if the occupants had vanished out of thin air leaving dirty dishes, sweating glasses, empty shrimp shells, slightly pulled out chairs.

Then I thought, The man has made a bed on the floor, the hell with the dishes!

We stretched out; his head at one end, mine at the other, bottoms of our feet together. We stayed like that for a good twenty minutes, toes kissing, while the evening light spread over the ceiling.

Thank You, Mary Oliver

Some Questions You Might Ask

Is the soul solid, like iron?

Or is it tender and breakable, like

the wings of a moth in the beak of the owl?

Who has it, and who doesn’t?

I keep looking around me.

The face of the moose is as sad

as the face of Jesus.

The swan opens her white wings slowly.

In the fall, the black bear carries leaves into the darkness.

One question leads to another.

Does it have a shape? Like an iceberg?

Like the eye of the hummingbird?

Does it have one lung, like the snake and the scallop?

Why should I have it, and not the anteater

who loves her children?

Why should I have it, and not the camel?

Come to think of it, what about the maple trees?

What about the blue iris?

What about the little stones, sitting alone in the moonlight?

What about roses, and lemons, and their shining leaves?

What about the grass?

- Mary Oliver

Keep It Current

"Keep your guilt current," he said.

"What the hell do you mean by that?" I said.

"What happened in the past is over, done. There's not a damn thing you can do about it. But today, yes."

"But, shit. I feel a bunch of guilt. I mean, especially with Jess. I was so young with her. I did some pretty stupid stuff and..."

"Are you feeling guilty right now?" he said.

"Amazingly, no."

"Well, then, do yourself a favor. Keep it current," he said, resting his case.