Month: December 2019

Christmas, Family, Home, Music

Music and memories

LB

Christmas eve morning, 2019. A young boy’s voice, pure and clear, sang the first line of Once in Royal David’s City and I was instantly transported back two years to England and my sister’s house, the last Christmas we spent together.

We’d had a mid-day meal at a nearby inn and by 3, with the sun low in the sky, we were back at her house, mugs of tea in hand, ready to watch the BBC broadcast of the Nine Lessons and Carols service from King’s College, Cambridge. Coats rustled as people took their seats, silence fell, and a young boy’s voice rang out. 

I don’t remember when I first listened to this service—it might have been at my sister’s house or possibly with my mother on one of those quiet Christmases we spent together after dad died. I’d arrive on the 22nd or 23rd and we’d spend the morning of Christmas eve listening to the lessons and carols and decorating the tree. The listening helped us feel connected to my sister at home in her English village.  

On this Christmas eve, I sat for a few minutes then I was up and puttering around the house while the service played in the background. I paused to listen more intently to certain carols—Silent Night, Adeste Fidelis. And as the voices soared I was taken even further back to family Christmases in Ohio and the candlelit lessons and carols services we attended at Mariemont Community church, a small stone church modeled after English parish churches. 

I remember the strong descending notes of the organ and then the choir singing “On this day, earth shall ring…” as they processed in, the stone walls and dark wood pews, the familiar carols and my sister and I searching for the harmony line, the final carol, Adeste Fidelis, with its soprano descant that spiraled up through the candlelit space, and then the choir singing Masters in This Hall as they recessed. 

Music and memories. I spent Christmas with friends and will gather with friends tonight to see out the year. I revel in these warm connections—I am held by them just as I am warmed and held by the music of the season and the memories it brings. 

Once in Royal David’s City, sung by Kings College Choir, 2016

Adeste Fidelis, sung by Harvard University Choir, 2009

On This Day Earth Shall Ring, sung by the Kings College Choir, 2009

Masters in This Hall, sung by HSPVA Madrigal Choir, 2009

Meditation, Writing

Finding focus

LB

I begin my days most winter mornings sitting in my living room next to a south facing window. My back is to the window; I look across the room and out of the north-facing window at rhododendrons and behind them tall evergreens that mark my back boundary. On a clear morning, the sun, sitting now in the southern sky, warms the room and cascades over my shoulder and arm. But today is cloudy and I’m warmed only by the heat blowing through a nearby floor vent. 

Snow sifts down. The shrubs and trees are pocked with clumps of snow from a recent storm. It’s a gray, green, and white world. I took a picture yesterday of the snowy view out my front door. I’m struck by how muted the colors are—the faintest hint of green on shrubs, a brown house down the street. 

Winter. Part of me wants to hibernate, avoiding the cold, the low light, the snow-constricted, icy walkways; another part feels a deep restlessness. I’m like the cat who sleeps for long hours and then wakes to scrabble at the front window—let me out, let me out.

This restlessness interrupts my writing and editing. I told myself that yesterday would be a day to sit at my desk and focus—my own writing in the morning and then some editing in the afternoon. But the online crossword puzzle beckoned, and then scrolling through social media, which led to a couple of interesting articles. Some phone calls. A load of laundry. I finally settled enough to work on an essay about my mother. But after lunch procrastination once again took hold. 

I made a grocery list and headed to Trader Joe’s. When I was checking out, the cashier asked how my day was going. I said something about restlessness, about difficulty sitting down at my desk and getting to work. “I know how that feels,” he said. He scanned a couple of items, then looked at me and asked, “So, what would help you focus?”

“A cup of tea,” I said. “Tea is good,” he responded. 

“And then I need to just do it, don’t I?” 

“Good luck,” he said as he plopped the filled grocery bag into the cart. 

I’ve been watching videos posted by a British woman who hiked the Pacific Crest Trail this year—one video a day as we follow her through water-starved desert terrains, treacherous snowy passes, dripping rain forests, sometimes with companions but often alone for days on end. She’s charming, likable, ordinary and extraordinary.

Yesterday was the last video, marking her completion of the six-month long trek. And this got me thinking about how we applaud people who take on these big challenges—hike the PCT or the Appalachian Trail, write a book, solo travel around the world, run an ultra-marathon, etc.—enduring hardships, reveling in small triumphs and joys, countering fears to reach the big goal.

But doesn’t the real challenge lie in how we live our day-to-day lives? Staying in the here and now even when the weather is cold, the world is icy, the cat refuses his medicine, our work feels bumpy, and our sinuses ache? Isn’t the real challenge waking up to our lives, moment after moment? Finding our center, point of focus, passion, our guiding star, and returning to it again and again, no matter how strongly we’re pulled away?

What will help me focus, keep me grounded and awake? The answer changes moment to moment. This morning I picked up my laptop and started writing about my here and now. I’m now at my desk in late afternoon light, one lamp on, a clock ticking, the cat curled up in a corner of the room. On the desk is a rock with the word Breathe printed on it. And so I breathe and I write.