I'll be home for Christmas

I'll be home. . . for Christmas. . .
you. . . can count on me. . .

I heard this song last week and it was bittersweet. Sweet because of the memories, but bittersweet because I can't go home anymore, because everything has changed, and life has moved on to a different era.

When I ventured off to college, I couldn't wait to get out the door. Freedom at last! But then, it was like there was a homing beacon, tucked deep inside. I didn't dash home with the same exuberance as when I left. Instead, I was gently, irresistibly drawn. I would make no plans to go home, but after 4 or 5 weeks, I always found myself looking for a reason to go. Over the years, I learned to expect that, and just planned the home trips at regular intervals because I knew, I just knew, I needed to be there.

Even as an adult, home was the one place on earth I could go, and I was always safe, always accepted, always loved. Did they not know my faults and failures, or did they just look beyond them? I don't know for sure. I only know that I could snuggle beneath the sheets at night and know that I could practically do no wrong. It was a place of respite for me in a world that is not always kind.

I could take my children to the people who adored them, if possible, even more than I did. Who else would cheer that a baby could roll over?

Years went by, and we moved far away, and though home still called, especially at Christmas, we couldn't make the trip as often. Even now, I still hear that call, and I answer, but only in my dreams.

I'll . . . be home . . . for Christmas. . . if only in my dreams!

I've had a cold. . .

I've had a bad cold, but I'm feeling SO much better today, it always reminds me of this famous passage:

Not since that summer when, at fifteen, Marcellus was slowly convalescing from a serious illness, had he experienced so keen an awareness of life's elemental properties. The wasting fever had left him weak and emaciated; but through those days of his recovery, his senses had been abnormally alert. Especially in the early morning: all colors were luminous, all sounds were intensified, all scents were heady concentrates of familiar fragrances.

Until then, the birds chirped and whistled, each species shrieking its own identifiying cry; but it was silly to say that they sang. Now the birds sang, their songs melodious and choral.

Granted, I have not been nearly as ill as dear Marcellus, but when I've been sick, and start to get better, I find myself rejoicing in each clear breath, and I'm always reminded of this passage.

Then and now

Sledding

Happy Thanksgiving

Lots more pictures on facebook.