It's funny how the Christmas season makes it seem like it's been a thousand years since I last hugged my Mom. And at the same time, it was just yesterday. I still feel her presence around me to a very strong degree.
We were people cut from the same cloth--generally laughing, embracing new concepts and odd ideas, a little left of normal. Hey, she was one of the very first people to come up with the concept of aerobics classes for women, water aerobics, she took and taught belly dancing in the '70s in conservative Connecticut. She acted, taught music, studied myotherapy, took rock climbing though DEATHLY afraid of heights, was involved in numerous acts of charity, heart, compassion and friendship.
To me she was a loving, laughing, singing, shining example of what it means to be a luminous human being. Surviving multiple tragedies and always coming through the other side more grateful, more joyous, more loving.
I remember the profound joy she took in the holidays. Starting the day after Thanksgiving, she became giddy like a child, unwrapping precious ornaments and figures, each having a unique history that we enjoyed hearing each year. She also spent Christmas remembering her beloved Aunt Dottie, another free spirit guided by a love of life, family and song—and who was taken too young.
As Jane was putting out the Christmas elves that Mom & Dottie made the year I was born, she said, "These are kind of creepy." I could see where she'd say that. Without the history, they are just a bunch of 40+ year old felt scraps and detached heads--like there had been some horrible incident at Santa's holiday soirée. Perhaps a tragic baking accident or a serial Grinch.
But to me, when I see these sorry little dwarves, I hear her laugh, see her tear up at the thought of Aunt Dottie, smell chocolate log cookies baking in the oven, and hear Julie Andrews singing "Bells of Christmas."
I am so glad to see my brother sharing our genetic love of Christmas with his kids, telling the stories, making sure the lights are just right, as my niece, feigning annoyance, rolls her eyes and says "Dad just has to tell the stories about every ornament..." secretly loving the fact that he does.
When I found this picture today, in a box not opened for 20 years, I was transported. I remember the camera that took it, a Polaroid Swinger, was a Christmas staple.
Amongst the collection of paper scraps, faded pictures of forgotten moments, torn snapshots, the smell of mold and old chemicals, memories lay ready to trigger the heart.
I wish my Mom had lived to see her beautiful grandkids. She could have shared the same old dusty stories and ornaments, with a vibrant and heartfelt love, which made them sacred.
Mom, I miss you, but as it is Christmas, I hear your laugh, I feel you here.
Thank you.
