LOVING LONG DARK NIGHTS

Some of us actually love long dark nights.  Are you one of those?  I am. Nothing beats warm pajamas and early-to-bed. Today is the winter solstice in our hemisphere and my husband and I have picked out our spot to watch the conjunction of Jupiter and Saturn.  The last time these two bright planets huddled this close together was in 1623! We'll be doing our own huddling in hats, mitts and scarves.   

I wonder what the world thought almost 400 years ago before telescopes and binoculars.  The Christmas star I suppose some called it.  I read that not until 2080 will the planets align so closely again. I won't be here to see that.  

So a few minutes after sunset we and another couple will be at our spots at a high point just a few miles from home staring at the southwestern sky.  If we were at the beach in Pine Knoll Shores the view would be spectacular.  This is the season the sun disappears directly into the Atlantic there.  Residents gather every cloudless evening to watch the drop. Tonight they can also see the planets shine about 30 degrees above the horizon. 

Tomorrow the night will be a few minutes shorter. The next night a few more.  Until the shortest night and longest day on June 20, the summer solstice. I plan to savor the still-short days in January and February.  I plan to light fires indoors and out, grill hotdogs and steaks and roast marshmallows. Keep the sparkle lights twinkling.  Bundle up every sunny day and enjoy the cold.  Read, knit, cook, try new things, pray, keep as positive as I can.  And of course hope for snow, which in fact is forecast for Christmas Day. (In contrast, our New Jersey relatives are making snow angels already and digging out if they want to go anywhere.)  

Isn't it wonderful to have something like this free for all?  Here we have been trying to survive Covid, worrying about ourselves and eachother, modifying plans like mad, weathering the strife of politics . . . and all of a sudden it's Christmas week.  Lights everywhere, gifts, mangers, movies to watch,  Zoom sessions with friends, FaceTime with family and, best of all, vaccines being scheduled. 

I'm taking the conjunction of these planets as a symbol of hope.  Why not?  Why not indeed.          Nina Naomi 

 

 

 

 

LIVING IN WINTER RHYTHM

If we like to live in rhythm with the seasons we may like winter best this year.  Best for the brightness of the winter sun and darkness of the nights. Best for the long evenings and short days where work stops early and children are in their pajamas before dinner is begun.  Somehow the pandemic doesn't seem so strange when we'd be hibernating anyway.  When the kids would be inside doing homework or helping set the table, the older ones texting or sprawling.  Arguments or music or TV in the background.  Or if we live alone perhaps silence, pets curled near heat vents.  The air outdoors smelling of wood smoke.  

I saw a poem by Canadian poet Brittin Oakman that I am changing to fit how I'm feeling today.   

Did you lie when you said you were busy?

You were busy but not in the way people mean.

You were busy taking deeper breaths.  

You were busy thinking lovely thoughts.

You were busy creating a calm and steady heart.  

Busy living in rhythm with the seasons: winter spring summer fall. 

Busy encouraging yourself, "All is well.  All manner of things will be well." 

Sometimes this is your busy.  

Your very own wonderful busy.  No need to apologize for that.   

So yes we can--even nine months into a pandemic, the air turning colder and us occupied with whatever Christmas will be this year, whatever Advent is, and us breathing, thinking, calming, encouraging, believing--live in harmony with the seasons.  Thinking of you, Nina Naomi 

IF EVER A YEAR NEEDED CHRISTMAS THIS IS IT

Our pastor, our vicar and the church administrator have all been exposed to someone who came into our church building and then tested positive for Covid-19.  We're not a large church, so the outdoor service and drive-through communion for this week are cancelled.  The clergy are isolating, getting tested, and we all have our fingers crossed.  My husband was in the building this week too.  We're sorting through that.  No different than what each of you is going through I'm sure.  Everything on a scale.  Trying to be hyper-vigilant without succumbing to fear.  Balancing risks.  

So yes, if ever there was a year that needed Christmas this is it.  For a thousand reasons.  When life is as complex as ours is right now reading or writing a poem sometimes helps.  Here is my offer, small as it is.

Advent is a time to wait.

Silent thoughts.

Whispered prayers.

Hushed hopes.

It is meant for contemplation.

     As the night tucks in the day so should we.

O come O come Emmanuel.

Bring peace on earth to us as well.

While we wait let us be more, let us do less.

Now is not the time to do, but the time to undo.

Take a breath.

The air is fresh.

In and out as we wait . . .

Nina Naomi

A MYSTERY AT WATER'S EDGE

A Mystery

At the water's edge on the deck of a dream clinging to space

The woman felt depression lift, perhaps only by a centimeter, but lift it did. 

She knew the past made love precarious for all that had happened here.

Her presence could smother remains of the pain that was birthed in this place

Where looking and seeing and saving began.

An exorcism if you will, of what (or who) did not belong.

And now?  Love is not so precarious as it was, please God.

Not at all.   

PRAYER FOR AUTUMN

 This is the time when the ground turns gold

When red confetti falls

And the woods out my door is living and dying.

      Grant me O Lord an eye to see and a heart to feel.  

These are the days when the wood-smoke curls

And the pine cones crackle

When logs are split

And the crock pot simmers.

      Grant me O Lord a mind to ponder and love unbounded. 

Tonight is a night when the air is moist and the stars shine low

When moonbeams reach deep, deep in our rooms while we sleep content. 

     Grant us O Lord a nourished soul and a giving spirit.

     Grant us wisdom to gather your gifts and count them, one-by-one-by-one. 

      Amen

N.N.

ISN'T IT GOOD JUST TO BE ALIVE?

Mr. Wiggles

Wigs is not a fancy dog. I groom him myself, which really should be "groom" in quotes.  An uneven haircut and bath in the laundry room sink, especially needed after he's found a bit of who-knows-what to roll in.  I need to Google "Why do dogs roll in stuff that stinks?" [OK, I looked it up.  Called "scent rolling,"  the responses range from "because they're disguising their own scent" to "because it feels so good."]  

Last evening standing with Mr. Wiggles by the back door I could see my husband in the window light clearing the dishes.  What a lovely scene I thought.  But Mr. Wigs and I could hear the coyotes and they were too close for comfort. Once it's dark, even if it's only 5 o'clock, we go out with him to ease his fears.  He stays close by then, not venturing beyond the trees that border the driveway.  There was barking last night where there are no houses or pets, nothing but woods and train track.  It was too early for that mad howling we hear some nights late, but Mr. Wiggles knew. 

I heard a sound like a hiss then, close by, maybe under the tree house.  I told myself it must have been the out-breath of a startled deer, nothing more.  But my light picked up only trees.  

Wiggles is a brave boy, routing deer during the early morning which always amazes me.  Such skittish creatures that a 10 lb maltipoo can scatter a herd and they both know it.  He plays his part and they play theirs.  Running and barking while they gracefully leap and dodge.  He can't chase them far.  

By the time we came inside the kitchen was wiped down and it was time to watch another episode of one of those exciting series all of us get hooked on. These are the simplest of pleasures.  In North Carolina a mild autumn night, the dog, dinner over and a little TV.  When I walked out with Mr. Wiggles again at 11 pm he made quick work of it.  I bet you're finding simple pleasures too.   

 

 

 

 

 

WHAT STILL LIVES

 

What Still Lives

     I always slept with my head at the foot of the bed because that's where the open window was.  A hot breeze in summer with Grandma's large rotary fan facing outward at the porch door.  The sleeping porch, upstairs, in the old house where we all lived.  Better in rain, my face wet.  Better still in winter, my face cold. Window cracked, covers bunched.  Comfort every night; every night content.  What can you hold from your childhood?  Who were you then?  Think it, write it, believe it.  It still lives. 

     Did you play outdoors?  Did the dog follow you to the creek?  I could hang by my knees upside down from a bar and swing. Climb the ladder on the home-made swing set and sing show tunes to confound the neighbors. Make my way down a hill covered with cacti for no reason.  Dress like a cow girl in rawhide vest and boots. Climb trees.  Oh how we love to climb trees.  Do you hold memories dear?  Remember them, write them, believe them.  They still live. 

     Live a large life.  Live a small life.  Who can tell the difference?  It's your life.  Live in one town in one house on one street or one apartment in one building on one block or one old house that your father cannot repair for love or money.  Live with grandmas or parents or brothers or pets or anyone who shows you love.  Loud homes or quiet, books or no books, trees or sidewalks, fried bologna or fresh fish.  You still live.