Wonders of the Season

Photo: Petr Kratchovil

Okay. Christmas brings some of my most favorite things in life to the forefront. For one thing, things that sparkle and glitter and shine. For another, singing!! People who don't sing at all the other 49 weeks of the year find their voices in December and they sing songs that (gasp!) actually have a melody line!! Then there are the colored lights . . . lots of colored lights. And, to quote Lucy of Charlie Brown fame, "presents to pretty girls!" All of these are very, very good things.

And then, of course, there also is the de facto carte blanche to eat chocolate and sugar cookies while curled up in your coziest pair of pajamas, washing everything down with less-than-moderate quantities of champagne or hot chocolate. (Wait a minute . . . can you say that? De facto carte blanche? Randall, help me out on this one . . . hmmmm. Well, I'm not sure can SAY de facto carte blanche but I'm pretty sure you all can translate . . . basically, I'm saying "Free for All.") And, IDW, this is NOT such a good thing. I mean, I'm not saying it wasn't good while it lasted . . . but right about now, I'm missing vegetables. Fresh fruit. And even [insert angel choir here] the gym!

If that doesn't prove to you -- especially to my two Saras! -- that this is the season of miracles, I don't know what will.

Hark How The Bells

Photo: Petr Kratchovil

I'm resisting an urge to write about corruption . . . the lyrics to Simon & Garfunkel's Sound of Silence have been running through my mind today ("Fools said I/You do not know/Silence like a cancer grows...). Silence ain't the only thing that does that. Corruption comes to mind . . . you know, the kind for which Bernie Madoff has become the new poster boy. Bernie, so often hailed as a financial genuis, may not be Australian, but he's definitely an illywhacker just the same. Yup . . . if you're looking for someone to honeyfuggle you, Bernie's your guy! Or at least he was until last Thursday when the feds picked him up for perpetrating a $50 billion Ponzi scam. (Umm.... in case you couldn't tell, I got a new book of weird and wonderful words as a Christmas gift and by George, I'm putting it to good use! Illywhacker and honeyfuggle are great words, aren't they?! Thanks, Ronda!)

Anyway, I'm a paragraph in to this post and STILL resisting the urge to write about corruption and how it seems to be moving through our society faster than the most virulent cancer. Resisting because, well, what would be the point really? If you want to read about how much everything sucks, you can go almost anywhere else for that. Or just turn on the television. It's really easy to talk about how terrible everything is and how humanity is going to hell in a Donna Karan handbasket. Or maybe Dior? Hmmm ... I'll have to ask Fifi what kind of handbasket one would take to go to hell. She'd know. She knows the right accessories for every occasion! Though, of course, in this case we are IN the handbasket rather than just carrying it, so that might change things. Also, it would have to be a pretty big bag to hold us all. More like luggage, really . . . so maybe American Tourister could design something that would work. Actually, that sounds about right. American Tourister might just be the way to go.

But luckily, I'm not writing about going to hell in a handbasket. I'm not writing about corruption. I'm writing about the Good Stuff. And even with things the way they are, there's lots of Good Stuff. I know this in my heart of hearts. But the truth is, I'm feeling about a quart low today, so how about if you -- my loyal, if mostly-lurking readers (you know who you are!) -- post some Good Stuff for me to consider?! I'd love to have the reminders!

Pass It On

Photo: Anna Cervova

As a child, my favorite song in Sunday school was, "This Little Light of Mine." Probably because there is a lot of stuff in there about shining, and everyone knows how much I love the shiny things in life! But, I suspect, even at that tender age, I also could sense the deeper meaning of the song and knew, in that intuitive way children know important things, that letting your own light shine -- however little it might be -- was and is a very big thing indeed.

Similarly, I've always loved candlelight services. Standing in a darkened sanctuary, holding a candle with a little paper guard attached to protect against dripping wax, you let the person next to you pass you the flame from his candle. Then you turn and pass it to the next person, who passes it along to the person next to her, who passes it along to the person next to him . . . and on and on, until every candle is lit and the space is full of warmth and light. Then maybe you sing a little Silent Night and . . . sorry, just thinking about it can make me all choked up.

It's such a beautiful metaphor in so many ways . . . the flame, of course, represents divine love, or what the Greeks called agape. And the darkness is all the many earthly things that divine love can overcome -- fear, lonliness, jealousy, greed, bitterness within our own psyches, and their corresponding projections in the world at large. You know, the big things like poverty, prejudice, corruption and war. The candles underscore, in a way electrical light does not, that the darkness is huge. And always there. But each little bit of light makes it smaller and pushes it farther away. We're so accustomed to flipping a switch to get our light that it's nice to have this gentle reminder of individual power and, I think, individual responsibility.

Candles make it clear that we don't have to flip a switch to transform the world. We can do it a little at a time . One light makes a difference. But when that light is used to spark other lights . . . oh, the possibilities of working together. We can illuminate the whole world! Darkness ceases to BE darkness. Rather, it becomes the light that touches it. Alchemy has nothing on this process! And, even if one candle goes out, those lit with its flame continue to shine and can, in their turn, pass the light along. (Did I mention this always chokes me up? I did? Okay. Just checking. Moving on.)

Last year, the world lost a bright light. Stephanie Martini was a woman who very nearly defies description. Here's a thumbnail sketch: If you asked Stephanie to find a needle in a stack of straw, she'd not only find the needle, she'd spin the straw into gold for you as a bonus. Beautiful? NBC did a special on angels and Stephanie's image was the one they chose to represent a heavenly presence here on earth. Talented? At any given time, 98 to 99% of actors are unemployed, but Stephanie could always find work when she sought it. (She sought it less often after her children came along, dedicating herself to them and to her husband, the brilliant composer Jim Papoulis.) Intelligent? Absolutely. She graduated from Vassar. With honors, I believe. Creative? She helped found a theatre company. And her dinner parties were the stuff of legend. She was, by any objective standard, extraordinarily gifted.

But her real gift was her incredibly loving and generous heart. It came with an insatiable appetite for life and she wanted for everyone to partake of the feast -- literally, as well as figuratively! So, in addition to all she gave to her family, her wide circle of friends and to her community, she worked with Jim to start the Foundation for Small Voices.

This past Sunday, the Foundation had it's annual holiday brunch. All the usual elements were in place . . . a table laden with toys, donated and then wrapped by those attending the brunch. The toys will be distributed to various organization throughout the city that serve the needy. Delicious food in abundance. Face painting and cookie decorating to amuse the many children present. And Jim's amazing music, performed by some of the children with whom he has worked. One special musical highlight was a performance of a poem Stephanie's daughter, Caryl, wrote after her mother died -- Where Are My Angels -- that Jim set to music. When Broadway star and family friend Maurice Lauchner's rich baritone filled the room with its melody and lyrics, I don't think there was a dry eye in the place. For the duration of that song, we all were keenly aware of what we had lost and moreover, what her family and those closest to her had lost.

But, I think, we also were comforted by being together, each helping in some way to carry on something that had been important to her. Stephanie was present in the laughter and the chatter and the music and in the light itself. I looked around the room. Directly or indirectly, her light had touched us all and we all are better for it.

You may not have known Stephanie, but you surely knew someone like her. A parent or grandparent. A teacher. A minister. A friend. Someone who inspired you and who showed you what it looks like to live life at full throttle. Someone who lived his or her life way in a way that honored others. Someone who looked for ways to give back rather than ways to take more. That person's light lives on in you. It has become part of your own light, and, if you choose to, you can shine more brightly and powerfully than you did before. Pass it on. To honor that person and to make the world a better place, pass it on. To make the season bright and to make it last all year and beyond, pass it on. Let your own light shine and pass it on. Together, we really can illuminate the world.

Feliz Cumpleaños

True story. Three years ago today, I was at home, fussing over a printer jam, when something electric and malevolent shot through me. I felt as though I had been hit and liquid fire was coursing through my veins. I knew something was terribly wrong. Not with me, but with someone I loved. In that first moment I swung around wildly, not quite sure what was coming in. And my eyes fell on my Marine Corps flag. In that moment, I knew with a certainty I cannot explain that my friend, who was serving in Iraq, was in trouble. I fell to my knees and began to pray with an urgency that must nearly have matched that of Daniel in the lion's den.

Days went by and I heard nothing. My e-mails to him went unanswered. My mouth was full of a taste I recognized as fear. And, while my prayer on the first day had been full of power and fierce protection, as the days wore on with no news it delineated into something more like an incantation, "He's okay. He's gotta be okay." And then downhill a little farther still to, "Please let him be okay. PLEASE let him be okay." A kind of primordial begging.

And then, finally, the e-mail came. He was okay. Glad to be alive. A little worse for wear. (Being in a Hummer when it's hit by a mortar round can have that effect.) Better off than the men in the convoy ahead of him. May they rest in peace.

We met in the wake of 9/11, when he was patrolling the George Washington bridge. And, unlikely as it seemed initially, we forged a friendship that's lasted nearly a decade now. It's a quirky and idiosyncratic friendship, to be sure, but a friendship nonetheless. And for me, the proof of the connection was that moment when I felt something happening to him half a world away. I don't fully understand why those connections happen but I honor them.

Of course, honoring the connection isn't really hard when its to someone who is outrageously sexy and can make you laugh even when the world seems to be crashing down around you. Happy Birthday, dear friend. Here's hoping the year ahead is full of health, happiness and wonderful surprises.

Just Another Brick In The Wall

If there is a downside to having a blog of one's own it is that it can be just one more thing to feel guilty about. My male readers can stop reading at this point because I can't think of one of them who ever has been afflicted by feelings of guilt. (Even when one could make a damn convincing argument that they should be.) Come to think of it, my sister can stop reading, too.

I try to emulate these people, I really do. For the most part, guilt is a waste of time. It's like a rocking horse . . . no matter how much energy you exert, or how intense the ride, it's not going to get you anywhere. (Unless, you know, you're rocking at the top of a flight of stairs or something. In which case you could get to the bottom of the flight if you rocked hard enough. But you and the horse would probably be seperated along the way. And you'd still feel guilty.)

Women excel at guilt. (With the notable exception of my amazingly centered and self-actualized sister. And my friend Christie. And probably Denise. Maybe Annie... okay, clearly there are a few exceptions.) But most of us estrogen-based life forms can serve up guilt with a side of grits and cheese at 4 a.m. While sponge-painting the bedroom. On rollerblades. And whatever trips we may try to lay on others pale in comparison to the ones we give ourselves. Didn't go to the gym? Guilty. Ate too much Thanksgiving Day? Guilty. Can't be two places at one time? Guilty. Didn't make a blog entry today? Guilty. Guilty. Guilty.

The guilt never stops here IDW, in spite of all the good examples I have to work with. I try, I really try. But I haven't conquered it yet. And boy do I feel guilty about that.