Category: The Path To Home

As I struggle to release the lovely chaos of Christmas while boxing the ornaments, Christmas miniatures, hearth greens, Santa collection and Christmas crèche, I take a deep breath and inhale the stillness of this cold, quiet January morning.

There was a time—when our children lived under our roof—when I dreaded the “let down” of January.  I missed the hustle and bustle of shopping or crafting the just-right gifts for family and friends, the smell of baked goods to be shared with long-loved neighbors, unboxing the Christmas décor with the accompanying “oohs” and “aahs” from the children, and my husband and I taking them to ski the Colorado mountains.  I also missed the bright wrapping on presents under the tree, the anticipation and excitement of our son and daughters, who were hoping-beyond-hope they would be gifted that certain item topping their wish list, the days when the house bulged with laughter of late-rising, school-freed children.

In those days, I braced myself against the quiet of January when the children went back to school, my husband returned to work and I was left alone with my annual January letdown.

As I’ve reached my late-middle age, January has taken on a new significance.  I no longer designate it, along with February, as a month to be gracefully tolerated until the crocuses popping through the spring snows in my garden re-color my life.

January is now welcomed as a time for reflection, easy weekends with my husband and lunches with friends who have also come to appreciate the less-rushed time together that January offers.  In place of after-Christmas letdown, I now take time to enjoy a hot cup of tea and a good book while curled up under my tartan coverlet, a gift from my husband, or consider in pleasant anticipation new places to travel when I can welcome warmer weather.  I prepare oven meals that not only please our palates but also add warmth and aroma to the whole house. Everyday chores—washing, mending, organizing and running errands—are now accomplished at a slower, easier pace, giving my life the sense of quiet rhythm, routine and comfort I need when the temperature dips to frigid levels. How fortunate I am to have a home that embraces me with love and keeps me warm and safe.

I’m not the first to find January (and February) “less than” months.  In fact, the original Roman calendar consisted of ten months (304 days)—winter being considered a month-less period.  Around 713 BC, January and February were added, allowing the calendar to equal a standard lunar year of 364 days—evidently an afterthought even by the ancients.  Just as it did in those times, January finally takes its rightful place in my life—equal in importance to the renewing springs, playful summers and colorful falls.

One morning last week I woke to a light dusting of snow—maybe two inches.  There is something odd about snow resting on yet-green grass and stubbornly clinging to bright yellow- and rust-colored leaves.  Two seasons collided in my yard, and although beautiful, it just didn’t seem right.  But nature, as it is, does her own thing, and she certainly doesn’t ask my permission.

When I was a child, I wanted fall to “get a move on” so that Thanksgiving, my favorite foodie holiday,  and Christmas, with all the excitement of presents, would come quickly.  (Yes, I knew it was about being thankful and celebrating Christ’s coming, but after all, I was just a kid!)   But now I don’t want winter to come too soon.

Over the years, I have come to appreciate fall in ways I never did in my youth.  The colors have always been beautiful; but now I identify with fall.  The spring and summer of my life—attending school, anticipating first dates, beginning a new life with my husband, raising my three babies—are all behind me.  Now, in the fall of my life, I can at last give myself permission to slow down, to enjoy my first cup of morning coffee and write in my journal while my husband quietly sits across from me focused on the morning paper.  I like his quiet presence.

Now he and I have time to engage in long, thoughtful conversations—though admittedly, they can get a bit lively as we discover we don’t think exactly alike.  (We never did, but he is becoming increasingly aware of that as I become more vocal about my ideas.)  Still, the process is enriching.

In the fall of my life, I can choose those activities that will truly bring me happiness:  enjoying my delightful grandchildren, basking in my relationships with my grown children and their mates, having time to write and spending time with my author friends and thinking about trips I may want to take or adventures I’ve not yet experienced.  In other words, I get to investigate what I want on my personal “bucket list.”

I am, however, at a very tender age.   I’m fully aware that at any time the Grim Reaper could kick over my bucket and spill its contents into eternity.  Most of the time I remain in comfortable denial and think I have tons of time left.  However, I was reminded of my vulnerability when I attended the funeral of a close friend whose fall and winter collided before she could begin to get to her bucket list.

As I look out at snow clinging to exploding, yellow leaves, I am hopeful that my winter can be staved off a bit longer, that God grants me time to enjoy fall’s metaphorical colors and that there not be an immediate fall/winter collision in my life.  But heck, neither nature nor God will ask my permission.

I dreamed the other night that I was walking with a man dressed in bib overalls.  He was my father—who has been dead 55 years.  My father is showing me the house he built.  The site is beautiful, and I am happy for that.  The house is on a rise overlooking a valley.  He is proud of his accomplishment and is obviously hopeful that I will appreciate it.

My father leads me to the door, opens it, and allows me to enter first.  The house is unfinished.  There is no floor, which is out of construction order—just a well-swept hard ground.  The roof is on, but only studs form the frame.  There is no plumbing and no designated rooms—simply one large, unpartitioned space.

My father calmly closes the door, and for a moment I feel frightened, trapped.   I lived most of my childhood in fear of having no escape.  Suddenly I realize that it is strange for my father to close the door because I can walk between the studs and out of the house.  My father seems unaware of this fact.  With this understanding, I relax and I awaken.

This dream has plagued me all day.  I tried to shove it out of my thoughts, to focus on work around the house, to shop, to prepare my meals.  But no matter how I tried, it relentlessly pushed itself back into my mind, accompanied by the questions:  What does it mean?  And what am I trying to tell myself that is pertinent to the present?

This evening, it occurred to me that in my dream my father thought his job was finished; however, it obviously wasn’t.  Nevertheless, he wanted me to like it.

I’ve spent much of my life finishing this house myself.  First, I’ve put the floor of faith beneath my feet.  As a youth, I attended many church services with my friends where they had altar calls for those who wished to commit their lives to God.  Each time, I answered the call.  Once should be enough—but for me it wasn’t.  A kind, loving God who cared about me was not the example given to me in my childhood.  Trust felt impossible.  However, over many years, I have gained trust in God by turning the corners I knew He wanted me to turn.   As a result, I experienced unexpected joy and the blessings He had for my path in life.

I’ve installed the emotional plumbing and kept the integrated memories and emotions flowing into my present.  I valued all emotions—both from myself and those around me.  I gained understanding of and appreciation for my extremely intuitive nature and listened carefully for the voice of my writing muse.

I’ve finished the framing with boundaries.  This was not a skill taught in my family.  However, early on I learned where I left off and others began, emphasized understanding self before others, kept my mind focused on my own issues, responsibilities and goals. I built internal walls and rooms that separated my calling from my work, my parenting from my care of self, my husband’s and friends’ needs from my own.

Finally, I furnished my home. I had fun with the children and my husband, enjoyment of friends and participation in their lives—both good and bad.  Within each room, my calling, my work, my parenting, my relationships, I found places to rest, to find quiet time, to journal.  I furnished my life with hobbies like reading and sewing.  I learned to exercise routinely.  Self care became important.  The furnishing has been the fun part.

My father died young—in his 30’s.  He had no time to mature into a fully-grounded human being.  He died too soon.  Had he lived, I would like to think I would have had a better start, more support, more love, and even a finished floor beneath me.  But from what I know of him—plus what the dream revealed—I am not sure he knew to do more.  What I received was a blueprint—something I could build on.  It was up to me to finish this house—my spiritual walk, my physical abilities, my emotional maturity.  The unfinished house was all my father could do.  But he did leave me with a sense that someone cared for my well being and with an understanding that, as his daughter, I was important to him—that he would want me to be pleased.

Now that my children are raised, I hope they will feel I have given them a good beginning home with a floor of faith, healthy boundaries, a flow of accepted emotions, rooms of their own, and confidence in a solid roof of love that can support them while they attempt to do the same for their children.

At the beginning of every Christmas season, my emotions go through a roller coaster process that leaves me a bit shaken. As it is with so many others, my early memories of Christmas have been—painful. I know I am not alone. I know there are many who can identify.

The process starts when I don’t want to put away my fall decorations: the pumpkins, miniature bales of hay, faux brightly-colored leaves, the basket of gourds on my dining room table, the linen tablecloth.  My mind fills with oodles of excuses to put it off: they are beautiful; I haven’t had sufficient time to enjoy them; the work of putting them away is daunting, etc., etc. My favorite season of the year, fall becomes even more cherished just before I make room for the Christmas decorations.  Getting started feels like I am trying to run a race with lead weights in my shoes and inflexible knees that refuse to cooperate.

This is year was no different.  After being inspired by my industrious sister-in-law, who has already dispatched her favorite fall things and is ready to set out her Christmas ornaments, I was determined to spend today keeping a timetable other than my own.  I should have known.  That never works.

So, today was spent regrouping my wayward emotions, trying several times to get started, and finally giving up.  My husband and I watched Russell Crowe in Robin Hood.  It was terrific entertainment—although the PG-13 rating is questionable.  But the movie did the job: it took my mind off decorations, both fall and Christmas, and freed me from trying.  It is only when I stopped striving and listened to my own voice that I was able to regroup enough to define the problem yet again:  I hesitate to enter this holy season because it reminds me of injurious memories.  Or perhaps I am tired of trying to forget.  Either way, it is a real drag—literally.

Tonight, I am ready to remember good things:  my children’s excitement on Christmas morning; the baked breads, candy, cookies that I disburse each year to friends and neighbors who accept them with big smiles; carefully chosen gifts under the tree.  Finally, I remember a poem entitled, “First Santa.” I wrote it years ago to honor a man who tried to divert a little girl’s sad heart—and succeeded.  It is this recollection that helps me to give myself what he gave me: a distraction from loss.  In the midst of a painful childhood, because of the kindness of one person, I was thrown a lifesaver that I could hold onto through all these years: the memory of what it felt like to have received love and care on one sad Christmas morning.

Along with the nativity scenes, snowmen, Christmas tree, each year I put out my Santa collection. It reminds me that I still want to be like my first Santa.  I want to bring a little joy into a world that suffers under the burden of too much loss.

I now can take time to remember, time to allow myself to feel, to reread “First Santa.”  Soon I will get the decorations out.  I will attempt to be a small part of a good memory—for myself and others.

Laurel Jean Becker
ByLine Magazine – Honorable Mention, 1999
National Writer’s Association – Honorable Mention 2004