https://overfiftyandfine.com/2024/03/20/never-comes-later/
Tag: memories
Revelations of the New Year
As kids, many of us thought that the twelve days of Christmas were the dozen days leading up to Christmas. We smiled, hummed the tune, confusing the lyrics all the while (were the swans singing or swimming?); and then, one day, some of us dug a little deeper about the carol’s history because, well, curiosity and exploration gnawed at those of us with inquiring minds. If you grew up as I did – not knowing much about the intricacies and historical details of Judeo-Christian beliefs because your parents of somewhat contradictory faiths opted to let the Golden Rule guide their parenting and your ultimate disposition as a member of the human race – you then decided it was time to learn the lyrics and the meaning behind them. After all, you needed a bit of trivia to add to adult holiday conversations.
The twelve days of Christmas begin on the 25th of December and end on January 6th, the Epiphany. The days leading up to Christmas are consumerist fanfare, in my opinion; Christmas day and the days following Christmas are the magic. I say this not as a religious being but as a sixty-year-old woman who realizes that the days are growing numbered in many ways; and perhaps therein lies the reason that as we age, we look back and savor memories, especially those that have been created during the holiday seasons.
The second day of Christmas, as I stood filling the carafe with water to make a full pot of coffee because more than one lone imbiber of the brew was in the house, two turtle doves flew into my mind. Doves. The symbol for peace in most literature. However, two turtle doves represent the Old and New Testaments in Judeo Christianity in the carol. Then, on the the fifth day of Christmas as I sat looking out on a very gray and rain-soaked esplanade on the Charles, I heard a very humorous cacophony of cymbals and voices in my head (along with every other imaginable bell and whistle) squealing “five golden rings.” Were the rings the greatest gift? Why such emphasis on those rings? Is it because they were gold, precious, and coveted? Um, maybe. Here’s the bubble-bursting tidbit, though: the rings refer to five ring-necked pheasants. And suddenly, the memory of family huddled and scrunched into Gram & Gramp’s living room belting out “five golden rings” with the accompanying charade-like gesture becomes an even funnier reminiscence of our crazy, wonderful brood in simpler times.
Today, we’re nearly through the twelve days, the 10th day to be exact; and neither of my friends, Sylvia nor Erma, is contemplating the literal or figurative meaning of those leaping lords. Frankly, I’m not either. Instead, my focus is the new year and Epiphany. The ladies have danced; the maids have milked; the swans have swum; the geese have laid; the rings, well, they remain gold; the birds have called; the French hens are now multi-lingual; the doves have soared and now peacefully coexist; and finally, the pear tree still stands. Tomorrow and the following day, the pipers will pipe, and the drummers will drum, respectively. I, along with Sylvia and Erma, will both lament and celebrate the end of the holiday season. And then what?
Twelve days and then the Epiphany. The revelation. Whether or not you “believe” and subscribe to the basic tenets of Judeo-Christian dogma, one truth that cannot be denied is that there exists a multitude of chances ahead of us to do better, be better, live more fully, and love harder. Twelve months. 365 days. 8,760 hours. 525,600 minutes. 31,536,000 seconds. Epiphany takes on new meaning this year for me and all midlife women who have awakened to new chapters. There is time. We are not too old, and it is not too late, but the clock ticks. What are we waiting for?
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Flit and Soar, Perch and Rest
Although the house is still in darkness and the coffee has yet to brew, Sylvia, unable to tolerate her restlessness a moment longer, rises well before the sun. The early hour necessitates illumination of the Christmas tree much to Sylvia’s delight. Coffee by the tree in total silence amidst the twinkling lights sounds like a perfect way to start the first week of the year. And yes, the tree is still up (until the sixth at least) as was her mother’s custom. The only thing lacking this morning is a generously powdered, raspberry-jelly-filled donut.
Sylvia, bypassing the automatic setting on the coffeemaker, awaits her daily tonic with a favorite mug at the ready. Unlike most mornings when she rushes to consume that first cup to jumpstart her, today she purposely and patiently delays because she wants this feeling that is washing over her to linger as long as possible.
Hearing the three beeps signifying the end of brewing, Sylvia picks up her pace. After pouring that first cup, she shuffles from the kitchen across the dark hickory floor to claim her presence and this day by the tree. Being careful not to spill a drop, Sylvia facing the tree slowly squats, smiles satisfyingly, and raises her mug. “Cheers to the ultimate purveyors of jelly donut love! How lucky I have been to live this life as your daughter!
Today would have been their sixty-third, and I’ll repeat that which I have posted in recent years and have felt every year since my mother’s physical absence here in the world because it still and always rings true. (I’ve edited a bit now that Dad has passed and has been reunited with the love of his life.)
I feel my mother’s presence more than ever. She continues to give me strength. He continues to teach me even in his absence that all that matters is right now and what is in your heart. Their example – their devotion to each other, to me and their other children, to their grandchildren, and to extended family, friends, and community– allows me to get through each day and find something to smile about in the face of all of life’s chaos. I’ll celebrate them today in their way, going about the business of life.
While she taught me to keep going no matter what, he showed me in the end the importance of resting quietly in the moment. Like hummingbirds, she soared and flitted, and he perched and rested. One was left behind to face the world alone without the other, but the bond between them was never broken. It grew. It provided strength to the other. Her soulful and spiritual energy fueled him. The love, the friendship, and the mutual respect endured. I saw that each time in his eyes when I mentioned her name and in those moments when he thought I was his wife. Now, he has her back in his arms again. I believe that because I will forever subscribe to the power of jelly donut love.
Happy anniversary to the two people who modeled what true love, partnership, friendship and respect are. I’ve been pulled and pelted and torn, and it is only because of your love for me and the love you showed each other that I remain hopeful and able to get up again. Thank you for teaching me how to love, how to parent, and how to live.
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Sylvia, entranced by the dancing flickers and soothed by the warm morning elixir, has not even noticed that the day has dawned. Almost jolted, she finally hears the neighborhood coming to life; everyone readies for this new day as if it is any ordinary day. How lovely it is for Sylvia to carry deep within her the knowledge of how special this day truly is.
Indeed, there is solace knowing that the best days can be lived forever in the feelings that such memories have embedded on the soul. Happy heavenly anniversary, Mom and Dad. You always celebrated on this date, and no matter what else comes to pass on the tenth day of Christmas, I’ll smile and dream that those ten lords-a-leaping were hopping and dancing about reveling in the obvious joy you shared and showed the world.
Just a friendly urging that in the process of going about your life, you hang on to who matters most and make sure you leave nothing left unsaid.
“Love knows no reason, no boundaries, no distance. It has a sole intention of bringing people together to a time called forever.”
– Unknown
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In the Patch
“A pumpkin spice latte, Erma?” Sylvia asks.
Erma, with furrowed brow, looks at her friend, and rejects the idea unequivocally. “God, never. You know better than to even think that I’d adulterate my first brew of the day in such a way.”
“It’s National Pumpkin Day though. You’ve got to celebrate the famous fruit of the season! Come on. Pumpkin bread? Pumpkin cheesecake? Pumpkin ale? There is a plethora of the orange autumn fruit’s offerings out there. Choose something.”
Erma, with her hands wrapped around her stoneware mug of choice, puts forward her intention of the day, “I’ll fete the fruit in my favorite way – with memories I’ve made and shared in patches over the years.”
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What’s not to love about autumn in full bloom? The sounds, the fragrances, the colors… Oh, the glory of it all.
How will you celebrate National Pumpkin Day? Do what makes your heart happy and your soul dance.
~k.morgan
🍂🍁🍂🍁🍂🍁
Come said the wind to
the leaves one day,
Come o’re the meadows
and we will play.
Put on your dresses
scarlet and gold,
For summer is gone
and the days grow cold.”
– A Children’s Song of the 1880’s
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Simple Abundance
Say these three words aloud: apple, table, penny. Now, remember them. Simple task. Meaningful? Meaningless? Well regardless, we take for granted that we will always be able to perform the seemingly easy; but when all is said and done, those uncomplicated words and ordinary, mundane acts are nowhere near as impactful as watching him react to music of yesteryear or to the retelling of one of the countless stories he shared with me, stories that I am now charged with and honored to share with my loved ones and others on similar journeys. For me and for him, remembering that he was a member of the state championship relay team at Teachers College and being able to play back and recount that race and those feelings of glory were so much more important than the three plain and undecorated words that he could not remember ten seconds after they were uttered. That story of the past brought laughter and smiles to a room full of medical professionals who entered it both seriously and mission-oriented yet who left perkier and even more committed than they ever imagined they could be.
So, when we are feeling sorry for ourselves— admittedly, I do this more than anyone should or has the right to— let’s stop and get a grip. Hold on to the big, bubbly moments and memories from which we draw the strength to start all over again. That is our mission really, isn’t it?
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“…We can make the best or the worst of it. I hope you make the best of it. And I hope you see things that startle you. I hope you feel things you never felt before. I hope you meet people with a different point of view. I hope you live a life you’re proud of. If you find that you’re not, I hope you have the strength to start all over again.”
(~Benjamin Button, The Curious Case of Benjamin Button)
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All There Is
My parents were pretty private people, considering my dad had a fairly high-profile presence in our hometown and Mom, by virtue of her marriage to him and her longtime employment at a couple of business mainstays around town, also found it difficult to go incognito. They tried though, especially when it came to showing weakness, vulnerability, or just ordinary flaws. That was clearly an attribute or a shortcoming (not for me to judge) of their generation. They both knew though I’m sure that I needed to find and expose something redeeming in their terrible illnesses and in their stories, so I don’t really care if I’m judged for sharing this intensely special moment. I want you to know that when you wonder why I miss an event or say no to an outing, that this is my reason. Not my excuse. My reason for having set my priorities as I have. You set yours and I set mine. Friends accept and support; they don’t judge.
Well, on this day as I reflect on that which means the most, I’ll leave you with this. When you think there is no hope, no solace, and no good in missing something or someone because it doesn’t change a thing, a moment takes your breath away to show you that there is always hope, comfort, and good especially in the ordinary- in what we take for granted every single day-until we no longer have it at our fingertips and within earshot.
Just when you think a page has been turned in the book- the memory book, that is- life has you go back to revisit what makes your heart full, brings you peace, and gives you the momentary reprieve, reassurance, and validation you need.
I hadn’t heard my name, my given name anyway, cross his lips in many months. And tonight, as he has just begun to turn the corner on a bout with pneumonia and was well enough to have an ice cream sundae, he said it, meant it, and knew me. Really knew me. I felt it with every fiber of my being. I’ve never liked my name that much until this evening.
Listen closely after I ask him if he’s ready.
Don’t call me a wonderful daughter. I don’t need praise. I’m just sharing this with you because every single one of us needs to know that individually we can make a difference and that one brief, fleeting moment can make all the difference in our own lives.
This is what is called a savorable memory.
❤❤❤
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A Visit to Remember
“Where have you been hiding today after your long, productive night of writing?” Erma inquired.
With both a tear and a smile, Sylvia thoughtfully replied, “I was pleasantly spending time in the room of Remember.”
“The name of the room is Remember—the room where with patience, with charity, with quietness of heart, we remember consciously to remember the lives we have lived.
~Frederick Buechner
"ARE YOU THERE, ERMA? IT'S ME, SYLVIA." 