boxing day

Some folks consider the day after Christmas an important day of rest.
Whether they call it St. Stephen's Day or Boxing Day, whether they know anything about the day's history or just the traditions of their own family, what matters is Stopping the holiday-go-round to catch a breath. To nap, to read, to stare out a window. To be unambitious on purpose.
My mother considered it a day for good children to wait upon their parents, a reward for all that labor of making Christmas come together. So bringing up breakfast in bed was one way we did that, as were clearing out of the house or "keeping it down to a dull roar," to use my dad's phrase; or doing whatever errands or thankless tasks needed to be done, without complaint.
Now that both parents have been gone for more than 5 years -- she passed in 2002; he in 2004 -- my memories of the earliest holidays are the ones I cling to. Not so much the years when the house was so packed with adolescents that one hasty word or act could topple the delicate holiday house of cards; nor the years when we were all grown and they went off on vacations by themselves.
I like remembering the days when Christmas -- from the anticipation and preparations of Advent through the last glimmers of Epiphany on Jan. 6 -- kept all 8 of us warm and full and grateful for the particular miracle of one another.

keeping christmas

The year of the Jesus Box changed the way I saw Christmas forever.
It was square, cardboard and as big as a cake box. My mother had wrapped it in gold paper, cut a tiny slot on top, written "Happy Birthday, Baby Jesus" around the opening and set it on the front hall table. To the side, she placed a blank white pad and two pencils.
Anytime we did something sweet during December, she said, we were to mark it down on paper and tuck it into the box. Only it wouldn't count unless it was done in secret. You could also, if you were about to do something rotten, think better of it and write that too. A gift of omission was just as good. This was surely the most ingenious of my mother's Christmas ideas, though she'd been toying with the way we viewed the day for a while.
There were six of us born between 1952 and 1962; and like many kids of the time, we fought mightily for a turn alone with the Sears Wish Book. Making the right choice was serious business, as were those detailed letters to Santa Claus. By 1966 or so, she feared we'd lost sight of the Christmas spirit. We all loved Dad's re-enactment of Dickens' "A Christmas Carol," which he read every year on the nights leading up to the big day. At Catholic school, we were steeped in Advent and Bethlehem and "Away in a Manger." But Christmas to us, she saw, remained the Ultimate Feast of Stuff.
The first year, she'd had us visit a children's home right after the holiday, to share one of our favorite toys with kids who had less. "Be sure to bring something you love," she added. "It will mean more." Later, we'd set aside a Christmas for homemade gifts, or, as a family, donate our present money to charity. Giving, she was trying to teach us, could change the person who gave as much as the person who got. It was brave of her to fight the tide of our lust for things, and she didn't always succeed.
But the year of the Jesus Box, she helped us turn a corner.
Free will was not big in our house. Rules, my dad might say, kept things simple. So we had to stretch to actually consider how we behaved when no one was looking, and how we might behave differently. Now we had incentive. Most of us stopped at the Jesus Box once a day. Weekends, we might make three or four contributions. Near the end of the month, it was so full that you could feel the tops of other notes when you slipped yours in.
We couldn't wait till Christmas Eve, when we were going to present it to Jesus. Neither my little brother nor I (we were 8 and 10) knew exactly how that would work. We hadn't asked our older sisters ---it was more interesting to discuss the possibilities ourselves ---but we were anxious to see it happen.
Somehow, he and I had figured this as a contest: Who could be best? I know we signed our names, even though Mom had assured us He knew our handwriting. We both wanted to be the child with the most good deeds when the day of reckoning arrived.
Christmas Eve finally came. Right after dinner, my mom assembled us in the living room. A fire crackled in the fireplace; the tall spruce, heavy with ornaments and clumps of tinsel, sparkled. We could barely contain our excitement. Were we going to conjure Him, with some sort of prayer? Would He inspect every slip of paper, and read our notes aloud, for all to hear?
We sat on the rug near the fire and waited for Mom to begin. She held the gold-wrapped box in her hands, shook it, and looked into each of our faces.
"Are we ready to send this?" she asked.
Before we knew what was happening, she had opened the firescreen and put our priceless gift on the flames. Up in smoke went all our secret kindnesses, all the nasty things we didn't do, all the fights we almost had. Gone without a trace!
I think she was surprised to see the stricken way my brother and I watched the golden paper crinkle inward, swallowed by puffs of gray. She assured us Jesus would read every word, and remember just who had done what. It was without a d oubt, Mom was certain, one of the best birthday presents He would get.
We didn't quite believe it all at once. We had longed so to be recognized for our acts. But slowly, as the box melted in upon itself, and our words drifted up the chimney, we started to understand how some of the best gifts aren't piled up under the tree. Some of the most wonderful, my mom would say, are the ones you can't see.

Eileen M. Drennen / First appeared Dec. 24, 1997 / Page D1 / The Atlanta Journal-Constitution

inside out

....turns out you can't live in your head forever. Your body will find a way to get your attention, with a full New York City yell of, "eh! yeah you!" when you least expect it. And woah buddy. When it does? You best listen up.

packing up

Taking stock before another move.
What do you need to live? What can you put on hold, and deal with later?
Even if you're focusing on physical objects, the metaphysical finds a way to get your attention too. The process of sorting and deciding, weighing the merits of stuff you may have stopped noticing, focuses your gaze. Maybe it's one of life's reminders that we never really "arrive" at a place free of cares and worries, where all there is to do is just sit back and relax -- well, until the lights go out for good. Maybe it's life's way of reminding us we're always in motion. Toward one thing, away from another. Even when you think you're standing still. Keeping eyes on the road ahead isn't the only consideration. What are you driving? Who's in there with you? Are you both still up for the trip, even when the unexpected hitches a ride?

what stays

When the storm is close enough to smell and the winds are cranking it up so hard you can actually hear them scream, stop time and marvel at what's rooted at your feet.
There's beauty in what won't blow away, no matter how bad it gets.

In the beginning....

....was the word...
That line got stuck in my head at an early age.
It was what I would type whenever I tried out typewriters, keyboards or warmed up my fingers before moving on to something more original.
Today's word is Tupelo, as in honey from trees that thrive along the creeks and rivers of the Florida Panhandle. From the Creek words for swamp (opilwa) and tree (ito). (Also Mississippi birthplace of Elvis, preferred sweet of Morrison, gold of Ulee.)
Roadside sign not far from St. Marks said it best.