"On the Christmas Spirit"

spirit:  n.  The manner or style of something.

It is that time of the year, Christmas. There is enough sugar and fat in the excessive amounts of candy, cookies, and goodies being produced in kitchens everywhere to clog the arteries of the strongest of men. Christmas baking for me consists of melting chocolate chips in the microwave and adding a variety of ingredients to create delectable, tasty treats. If not enough to cause a heart attack, they have the potential to at least make a person very sick.

As a gardener, I dispose of grass clippings, weeds, and branches at a local business. The debris is shredded and converted to compost or other planting mediums. I maintain it’s the perfect enterprise. They charge me for my dumping, then I pay for a completed product, one for which I have provided the basic resource.

The dump site is managed by several young men, most of them in their twenties. As tends to happen while I am out and about, I have become acquainted with some of them as they share parts of their lives while I am paying to dump my load. I know that one of them was recently married; another is taking some time off from college in order to get a better perspective of the direction he wants to go; another played football in high school and now spends his weekends in a “royal battle” of sorts. They greet me with a smile and know by now I will refuse their offer to help me unload.

A large container for gift-giving was purchased and will be filled to the brim with candy then dropped off at the refuse site today. One could say I have the Christmas spirit.

Being filled with the Christmas spirit is not a phrase typically applied to me. Never a “bah, humbug” person, the holiday itself is simply not that important to me. Lights, decorating, the tree—all things I can live without. A daughter expressed it well when she said, “You always did and have put on a good Christmas face for your kids and grandkids.” It’s good to know I haven’t mortally damaged my family’s love for the holiday.

A seeming contradiction, ornaments are made for each of the children and grandchildren every year, my share of gifts are added under the tree, a tradition of selfless gift-giving for the grandgirls is being established by giving them money to donate to others. I do not have a love for this holiday. But then, I have no love for any other holiday either.

Holidays come and holidays go, and so it will be with Christmas.

Over the years I have wrestled with what could only be perceived as a negative outlook, as I questioned the point of bringing a tree into the house, the obscene amount of “stuff” collected under that tree, all culminating in said gifts being dispersed, many to be forgotten before the next holiday comes along.

This is where I have landed, however—one day out of 365 is not a statement of a person’s life. Kindness, generosity, empathy, caring, selflessness, and love are important qualities that need to be manifest in one’s daily life and not limited to presenting a beautifully wrapped package to be opened on Christmas. They are traits that should be applied to all of life and the living of it, not just during a particular season.

And so, in a personal gesture, also known as “having the Christmas spirit,” I head out with my very large box of candy, delivering it to the guys at Rexius Fuel. It is my way of thanking them for revealing parts of their lives to me and for allowing me to get to know them. People matter. Holidays not so much.

  

"For Your Eyes Only"

It was, in a word--horrible.  While I am certain there are many things in life much worse, the Sunday my grandgirls were told it was time to say "Goodbye" to their family pet was as terrible, as awful as I had expected it to be.

I had been asked to stay with the girls while Mom and Dad took Tank to the vet.  It was time.  At 14, his vision had diminished due to cataracts.  His hearing almost gone, he hadn't heard me when I came in the door.  Arthritis in his back hips made it increasingly difficult for him to carry his massive body and to navigate the steps outside.  Tumors were developing, and the bones were visible on his once-vigorous frame, even though he ate.

Tank's deteriorating physical condition had been evident for months, and the family openly talked about the inevitability of the situation, that he was coming to the end of his lifespan. Still, as often happens in many areas of life, reality was a different story, a shock, a surprise.

The girls were given as much time as needed.  They hugged him, covering his body with theirs.  Lying on the floor next to him, talking to him and petting him, their grief and sobs were gut-wrenching and heart-breaking.  Now 10 and 12, he had been with them their entire lives. How does one let go of a best friend, a companion?

The thought quietly entered my mind, and I shared it with the family.  A letter, written by each of the girls, to Tank, their "forever" buddy, telling him all the things they wanted to say, all the things they wanted him to know and hear.

And so, after my daughter and son-in-law left, the grandgirls sat down at the table and began to write.  The crying subsided as they wrote their letters to Tank, expressing their feelings and their thoughts in words, on paper.  I told them what they wrote was personal and could be tucked away forever, shared with no one, if they so chose.

"That was helpful," the little one said, as she folded up her letter, heading off to put it in her memory box.  The older one agreed as she put hers in a small baggie along with some of her pup's fur.

I am a proponent of this kind of writing.  It cannot be called "writing a journal."  Journals are diaries.  This is venting, emptying, unloading from the very most inner depths of a person, a cleansing and cleaning out, if you will.  Though there may be no scientific data to support it, it is my experience and conviction that something positive happens when one voices in such a manner, transferring from within to paper.  After all, isn't that the basis, the essence of poetry, music, composition?

Many years ago, I was in the darkest of dark places.  All alone, I questioned all that I believed to be true.  I know and understand hopelessness, dreading the beginnings of yet another day.

I began writing, simply writing.  Everything I thought, everything I felt, all the doubts, all the questions, all the frustrations began pouring out of me onto the paper.  And, for me, all of the anger I felt towards a God who I was certain had neither heard my prayers nor answered them, who I knew cared nothing about me.

I have no idea how long this continued, but it was over quite a lengthy period of time. Despondent, filled with only negative, troubled over my life and how I was living it, I remember sitting at the kitchen table and filling page after page.  Punctuation, grammar, and form be damned, I just wrote and wrote and wrote.  

There came a time when I was finished, though I didn't realize it when it happened.  There was no final chapter, but the need to go there no longer existed.  Just as one does not go digging through a garbage can, there was no need to re-read all that had been released, and it went in the trash.  No one ever read the writings, and only God and I even knew of their existence.  

By that time an inner healing had begun.  We all know that physical wounds cannot heal as long as infection is present.  So it is with our inner beings.  That which is negative is toxic and must be removed.  Personally, that happened as I wrote letters to God, honest and real. I had no idea when I began that I would end up at His doorstep, but I did.

For those of you in a chronic set of circumstances, behavior, or memories which continue to haunt, daunt, or taunt you, robbing you of joy and peace in your life and the living of it, may I make a suggestion?   Find a quiet place, a piece of paper and pen or pencil and just begin writing whatever comes to your mind.

While talking with a friend or even a professional has value and merit, I feel there is no substitute for pencil and paper, baring one's soul in black and white, sweeping out the recesses and corners of one's mind.  Try it.  You just might be surprised at the outcome.
It costs nothing, and for me, it was one of the most valuable experiences of my life.  

And it is for your eyes only.

"On Caring"

care:  v.  to be concerned about, have an interest in; to be mindful of
          n.  close attention; concern; responsibility; the object of watchful attention or anxiety

"Thanks for checking in on me.  I need that sometimes."  The succinctness and directness of her response surprised me.  All I had done was send a text, inquiring as to how her leg was. "We all do," I answered.

The 12-year-old grandgirl had taken a knee to her thigh in a basketball game the day prior, and I had been wondering how she was.  I was watching another part of the game when it happened. When my eyes turned back to her, she was on the floor, writhing in pain as she grabbed her leg.  She's a tough one, not prone to drama, so I knew she was genuinely hurt.  I wanted to see how the injury felt after Mom and Dad's physical therapy and a night's rest.  

Caring.  To care.  About someone or something.  The thing about caring is either you do or you don't.  Caring cannot be fabricated or feigned.  Either there is a genuine concern or there isn't, and that is evidenced and felt.  Saying one cares is not proof of nor verification that one does either. "Words are cheap."  

There is no expense involved, no purchase necessary when it comes to caring about a fellow human being or the circumstances in their lives, but its importance and value can be quite substantial and should never be underestimated.    

Recently, a friend was experiencing a difficult time. "You doing OK?" I asked.  "Yes.  Your caring makes me feel better."  It was an unexpected response, but one that has provoked much thought.  

It takes so little to make a difference in other's days, in their lives.  In addition, real, valid, and genuine concern is a bold contrast to that which is counterfeit, superficial, contrived.     

The nature of mankind is to be wrapped up in "me, myself, and I."  Living outside of that "box" is a most rewarding and vital experience, providing personal benefits as well.  I am most enriched when I have shared myself with others, not in the giving of material things, but from within. 

It is always those things which money cannot buy which are the most valuable.  


"He cares for you."