her able hands

We’re halfway through Advent and finally, after decades, I feel almost satisfied with the observance of the season. For years I attempted to introduce a more nature based ritual to my family, but it must not have rung true for any of us. I could never turn any of it into an actual tradition. I purchased chocolate Advent calendars, burned the Advent candles for the tabletop wreath, read stories aloud from the Christmas Stories book after well-planned suppers. Tyler grew bored and frustrated after the first few days and sulked until allowed to leave the table.

I started rustic, woolen nativity sets but never managed to finish one. I have a few mangled mangers made of driftwood from a lake, a river and the ocean; deformed sheep, cows and the three kings. I don’t think I ever made Mary, Joseph or baby Jesus. Only one partial set ever made it to a table.

This year we’ve got an assembled, but undecorated Gingerbread House and a small forest of Marshmallow Trees that I’ll photograph once they’re done. I hope to have enough time this weekend to finish them, but the kids lost interest pretty quickly. I’ve learned to not fight it, to stop trying to force them into a mindfulness that they’re not ready for, not needing. I’m the one who needs it and a huge part of that is practicing letting go of trying to change everyone around me, and slowing down enough to let myself enjoy the unfinished aspects of our life together.

I didn’t want another cheap chocolate grocery store Advent calendar—not that there’s anything wrong with them, I just wanted something more permanent that I can look forward to unpacking on the last day of November and loading up with tiny treats. I knew I wouldn’t manage to make the woolen stocking garland I’ve fantasized about making for the past 20 years.

Instead I did a bunch of internet research and found something that’s good enough at Target.com of all places. I love the colorful fabric depictions of the Incan holy family’s journey, supposedly made by handcrafters in the Andes. Lila’s fascinated with the idea of a tree having little pockets filled with candy—one piece for each of the kids (next year maybe I’ll have it together enough to change out some of the sugar for little token gifts like crystals, ornaments, rubber stamps and that kind of thing).

When she wakes up in the morning my girl starts begging for her Kwistismas twee tweet. Finally hearing that it’s time after supper, she hoists a chair up so she won’t scratch the hardwood floor, maneuvers in an awkward balancing act it over to the wall, hauls herself up and figures out which day is next, and then digs out the two sweets. She then delivers one to her brother.

Last night she was in a remarkably cheerful mood and knocked on his door, slid it back and entered with her hand held out in front of her, “I browt you a kiss, Tyler!” I let her words sink into me, settle in my angsty, twitchy muscles and feel the tingle of all of that simple love. Remind myself that this is Christmas, this little moment of easy exchange between these two growing people.

While I was searching for the perfect pocket calendar, I came across an auction on Ebay for this sweet woven flax Advent calendar made in the 70s in Sweden (the sticker on the back confirms this fact). It has a little bell hanging off the tip at the bottom, and Lila likes to give it a quick jingle before we head out the door and into our busy days in the morning. I love that she does this—it’s like a small prayer.

I’ve been missing my grandfather so much and the round, rosy face of the child ringing the bell reminds me of Gramps and his sparkly eyes when my mom presented him with his holiday tin of Hermits, Swedish Brownies and Butterscotch Brownies (all his mother’s recipes). Gramps was Swedish through and through. Both mom and Aunt Ginny always got so much pleasure from sneaking him some homemade goodies and watching his smoldering ember glow of happiness at being loved so much. The man adored sweets even more than I do if that’s possible. Let me tell you, that’s an awful lot.

Sometimes at the Christmas Eve party at Uncle B’s house he pulled a chair right up to the dessert table, well, as close as he could get with his great belly swaddled in a red sweater resting on his lap. We stayed here by our lonesome last Christmastime so I didn’t have to face the reality of not seeing his ruddy cheeks and jokester’s blue eyes in the crowd of my extended family. We’re going home this year though, and it’s going to be strange. We’ll see Grams, but that’s a whole other blog. No, I don’t mean a separate blog post, I mean a whole other blog.

Lila asked last night if we could make a star for the top of our Christmas tree. I was thinking we should do something new. The angel I made ten years ago back in my other life is a wreck, the fabric stained with tree sap and yellowing from age and too many seasons spent in damp basements. I like that we’re letting go of some of the old things and making new ones to build our own traditions with. Chris doesn’t have a whole lot of holiday attachment, has never asked that we do anything the way his family did. Also, for a long time I didn’t dare to let go of anything that carried over from before, not wanting the season to be unrecognizable to Tyler when here he was having to adjust to this whole new life. But my boy is growing up and out and away. He’s more open to change. He likes the idea of a star. Maybe he’ll help us with the glitter.

We had our first significant snowfall—about six inches. On Sunday the air began to warm and the cushion started to melt away revealing the stones around the edge of the perennial garden. I’m letting myself slow down again on the weekends enough to notice what’s happening here as the seasons change. Spent this past weekend in the kitchen cooking, organizing and gazing out the window.

It’s felt like such a whirlwind since we moved in that I’ve hardly noticed my feet touch the ground. I love looking out and seeing the tiny woods that in summer was a curtain of green socking us in from the rest of the world, but now serves as a thin screen between us and the neighborhood. With so much less light now, it’s grand to look out and see more sky all around, to see the other houses nearby and to not feel so all alone the way we did out there at the old house.

I’m grateful for the winter garden. It gives me permission to lay fallow in at least one aspect of my life. The rest is a rushing forward through space and time at breakneck speed, but the snow-covered mounds whisper quiet truths to me when I stop and listen.

Bookmark It