Winter in the Shire

Luminaries

Photo Credit: B.E. Hobbs

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My mother used to say that the most important thing in life was to feel useful. She didn't "pursue happiness." It came to her. She wasn't big on presents as, according to her, they put the emphasis in the wrong place and there was the undercurrent of obligation . It tickled me how my dad would buy something he'd like to have and she would buy something she'd like to have and they would exchange those as gifts. I'll never forget the year my dad received a tray with legs. He exclaimed, "I didn't know I wanted breakfast in bed. What a great idea!' and she said, "Big slippers! In the same style and color as in years past. What continuum!" Continuum was the name of a book my brother had a photo in so we used the word a lot. When I said one year that I was going to start a new tradition of only giving Christmas presents to children, my folks heartily agreed, "Such a relief!" My dad was a fan of C.A.R.E. Off would go a package to a different location each year. We were very budget minded as money saved was money that could be shared.

I found such a batch of old Christmas poems here in the Shire that I decided I'd post two from long ago. As you can see, my writing style has not changed over the years and my tender view of life only acquires more patina.

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I sit with Christmas on my lap,

my tiny gift encircled by

bits of pine and ribbon,

shy angels ever making music

on sea-blue paper;

hopefully it holds the scents

of a cheery morning,

the memory of snowy childhood years

read about in books darkly illustrated,

the sound of tunes quietly harmonious.

I muse on how to wrap

the wishes that it brings--

how to stow away

a thousand crystal moments

of good will and joy

that I should like to place in it,

which when opened would burst

like time-studied flowers

into an exquisite bouquet.

Go, my little messenger,

my packet of good thoughts,

spread dreams of hope and peace

and Merry Christmases to come.

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Chrysanthemums lean like choristers

singing an earnest prayer;

measures greet me on the way

up the garden steps as I welcome

happy parcels in...stories all the quiet evening

with the hum of distant carols...

scents of dry jasmine, salvaged

from a summer's scouting,

and fir.

Everywhere, irrepressible joy--

messages, smiles, songs, secrets,

gentle rememberings

and scattered projects

stuffing each moment's fill

exceedingly.

A special time brings

a special wish:

Merry Christmas

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....may the blessings of a holy night be yours...