Silver Bells

We have a lot of food in our house this time of year. I know everyone does, but in our household there is a never-ending supply. Amanda is a very accomplished baker and cook, but she's human, and like all other humans who get distracted by Ukeleles and crazy friends, she may sometimes overcook a batch of Christmas cookies. I hope she'll forgive me for posting about it here.

I, on the other hand, am the weirdo who likes cookies slightly overdone. While Amanda was viciously cursing her culinary error, I had already stolen two of the "ruined" cookies, re-named them biscotti, and asked her to let me keep them. She adamantly refused my request, horrified by the idea of keeping her "bad batch" of cookies on the premises, so I gave them up for lost.

The other night, after I'd gone shopping for presents through festive (aka, pushy and crowded) Manhattan, I came back to my little home in Astoria and started making dinner when I saw a plastic bag of cookies on top of the refrigerator. Scrawled across the front, I read "Julie's biscotti", and realized Amanda had wrapped them up just for me. She laughed for about 20 minutes at my heartfelt, emotional response to this, and she'll probably tease me for dedicating this entry to her for it, but really - it made me think.

That same morning on the way into work, an elderly man whom I figured was undoubtedly homeless and/or crazy boarded my car with an accordion and began to play. To my astonishment, his rendition of "Silver Bells" was so beautiful I couldn't help but stare and smile at him. I got a dollar out for him when it was my stop, and when I handed it to him - anticipating a muttered incoherent word or something otherwise strange - his big blue eyes lit up and he broke into an enormous grin. "Thank you!! That was my first of the day!!" He cried, excitedly. Surprised by his normal, human response I stammered back how good he sounded and that I hoped he'd get many more tips, and left the train. But this exchange stuck with me the rest of the day. I couldn't help but wonder what his life must be like - if he has a family of his own to celebrate Christmas with and exchange gifts, and accordion playing just happens to be a hobby on the side. I much prefer that image to his tucking the accordion away behind him on the streets at night...

...I know I have been loved - even somewhat spoiled - in my life. There's no doubt in my heart that I have been blessed, and I don't take the time to believe the negative words and memories that infiltrate my doubting mind when I'm down. Still, sometimes I contemplate what ways love has been shown to me in my life, and really - the truest of that love has been shown in the least obvious ways. I've never needed fancy gifts from anyone - and no, I'm not saying that to sound modest. I'm really proud of the 13 inch TV I got when I was a Freshman in college, and Linus - the puppy I got when I graduated high school. (Among a lot of other kickass gifts). But when I lived in Paris, the notes Sera left for me on our bathroom mirror were enough; peppered with inside jokes she knew would make me laugh. Or the notes my Mom would leave in my lunch box every day, no matter how "too big" I got in high school. Or the time my Dad took my brother and me to the train museum because trains had become such a fascination in our house. I don't necessarily remember every time I was given flowers or chocolates by a boy, but I do remember the time a boyfriend asked me to go for a walk in the middle of the night to go get a 'hoagie' from 'Hoagie Haven' in Princeton and talk for hours.

 ...The random, silly notes to "Juju" by my beloved and hilarious cousin Lynn - just to say hi. (And of course, what I would give to see one of those now).

These gifts stick with me every time I think about this season. All of the ways we show each other we know each other, and are paying attention to who our loved ones actually are. We all get so busy - so self-absorbed and concerned with day to day nonsense that doesn't matter, and often goes completely forgotten.

The man on the subway, and his pure, innocent joy at a crumpled dollar bill from a complete stranger, was a lesson in modesty for me. Amanda, and the little things she never fails to remember to do for me or for the rest of her loved ones, is a lesson in true generosity for me. This season, I want to hang onto those joyful moments, free of ego, expectation or greed, and try as hard as I can to grow them into the year to come.

Happy Holidays, everyone.

Innocence

I know I speak for many when I say this weekend was pretty hard. It was emotionally draining and overwhelming. Obviously for some of us more than others, and some to degrees the majority of the country (hopefully) cannot begin to grasp.

I, for one, cannot grapple with the thought of 20 innocent children, and 6 of their educators, being shot to death in an elementary school. I can't handle the thought of just 1 innocent child being shot at, or witnessing such violence, and quite frankly my brain doesn't comprehend the scene the media keeps trying to paint for us. Because, for some reason, we need to know what happened. I'd rather not imagine the horror of that day, but some had no choice, so it is my belief that many of us feel the need to go into the darkness with them. We are helpless, strapped to our computers and television sets watching in horror, so perhaps if we torture ourselves with the mental images we'll somehow be "doing more," suffering with those parents and children, and uniting.

 Naturally, stories like this bring us all to our own personal experiences. Whether we knew the families involved, ARE the families involved, or simply have our own stories to relate it to, I can think of no one who isn't feeling very personally effected by the events of Friday right now.

Talking to my father over the weekend, he reminded me of something close to our home: When I was in Kindergarten, I walked to school from our babysitter's house for the afternoon class each day. I remember those walks being fascinating to me, because it was just a short path from Martha's house to the school by the high school next door, and we could always see the "big kids" sitting outside smoking or talking or eating lunch. I was very shy as a 5 year old, and I vividly remember not liking those scary kids sitting so close to the path we took each day. I also had never liked the Santa Claus that kids lined up to see in the mall each year. There was no reason behind it other than I was a bashful child who only trusted my family. (I guess in some ways I'm still like that.)

One day, I walked that path with just one of the other students because the rest were home sick. As we played on our walk, she ran ahead of me to beat me to the school and I struggled to catch up when I felt a powerful tug backwards. A man bigger than my Dad was following me, pulling on my backpack, and telling me I was "supposed to come with him." I'm not sure what part of my innocent mind realized this guy was evil, but I shrugged out of my backpack and bolted to the elementary school, where I remember hiding in the cubby area until the police - who'd seen what happened and arrested the man who was following me - came and questioned me. I think I was equally scared of the cops. I remember my parents sitting me down to talk to me that night about how it was good that I ran from him, how I should never talk to strangers, and what to do if that ever happened again. When my dad recapped that story for me this weekend, he said that I was "never the same" again.

"At 5 years old, something remotely traumatizing can change and shape a child." How true this was for me. I never felt the same way playing outside with my friends, and I remember - usually with a bit of a laugh - how I would clutch my mother and father's ankles and cry whenever they tried to drop me off at youth group, or ballet class, or even the babysitter's house after that day. A huge chunk of my innocence had been stolen from me in just seconds. I wasn't the carefree 5 year old who played 'tag' on the way to school anymore; I was the 5 year old who never wanted to walk alone again until I was well into my teens.

I cannot imagine what these parents are going to have to do to help their children feel "normal" again, after the kind of trauma they have endured. Part of me wonders how I would handle my own trauma, as one of their parents, let alone attempt to help them lead a typical childhood. Childhood tainted by an experience no one should ever have to endure in their lifetimes.

With this in mind, all I can return to is the hope I feel in seeing how many people were genuinely hurt by this news. I saw so many of my friends and colleagues cry out for change; I don't mind if the bulk of what was posted about was political, the important thing is that we all want to see A CHANGE. We want our country to be safe for all, and we want our children to be able to stay innocent and go to school without stomachaches or fear in their hearts. Knowing this is what most of us want, we underestimate the power there is in loving one another, sharing our fear with each other, and working together to stay safe. Maybe there will be a change to our laws - maybe there won't be. But, we are not helpless.

Let's all be good to each other.