For Cerridwen Elektra, Christmas 2006

Cerridwen--

One of the Old Ones,
Goddess of the Celtic World,
Maiden, Mother and Crone.

Old woman of wisdom, magic and power,
she speaks through our ancestors, our grandmothers.
All races and all generations know her only
when they shed preconception and prejudice.

Elektra--

Daughter of Agamemnon and Clytemnestra,
cloud nymph and wife of sea god,
mother of rainbow and storm wind,
the bright or brilliant one,
a Goddess of clouds with silver linings.

She brought forth a race apart of daughters--
three thousand light-stepping daughters--
bright children among the goddesses
who look after the earth and the depths of standing water.

Cerridwen Elektra--

You wear your ancestral name well.
It honors wisdom beyond your years,
the magic possible when we believe,
and the power of the feminine voice.

You are enchanting,
a fairy cloud nymph,
a light-stepping daughter.
You stride forward into the world of all women
riding rainbows and storm clouds alike,
revealing always the silver lining.

Youngest of the Old Ones,
you are Mother, Maiden, Crone,
and I love you with all my heart.

Judy
XO

For Elizabeth, Christmas 2006

For Dear Elizabeth--

The diva in our midst--
our beautiful mezzo soprano--

Oh little songbird,
you've filled our hearts with bel canto
ever since you were born.
It pours forth from you in coloraturas rich with heart,
in cadenzas strong with determination,
in crescendos solid with power and strength.

In tones pianissimo to fortissimo
you hold us enchanted, your own beauty reflected
in the grace you bring to your craft.

And so, dear diva, sweet songbird,
I wish for you in bocca al lupo!
And say to you, again and again--
I love you with all my heart.

Brava!

Mom
XO

For Andrew, Christmas 2006

To my wild-eyed man-child--

The drum beating,
fun loving,
sweet talking,
liberty seeking,
music making,
beat keeping,
joke making,
laughter inducing,
Africa traveling,
techno knowing,
style setting,
diversity loving,
principle keeping,
automobile worshiping,
ocean loving,
nature thriving,
dance jiving,
life-long learning,
baby of this family--

whom I love with all my heart.

Mom
XO

For George, Christmas 2006

In every family, there's someone who fills the spaces of the family's heart--
a person who is quietly watching, finding ways to comfort, always ready to listen, ever supportive, always loving.

In our family, it's you.

Ever since you were a little boy, you've had this uncanny ability to tune into each of us in our joys and sorrows. With your wonderful boisterous laughter, you've given us reason to laugh. With your shy sweetness, you've reminded us that we are loved. With your sensitivity, you've helped us through rough spots. With your generous spirit, you've filled us with the riches that a loving spirit has to offer.

You remind us that we share this world with animals soft and furry, large and romping, purring and barking, and you show us how important the interface with all of God's creatures is.

You are smart and kind and full of love.

I love you with all my heart.

Mom
XO

Christmas is for Grinches

Hating Christmas--
there's something anti-American about that.
What's not to love about the
larger-than-life front-yard snowmen
getting hot air blown up their asses
as they sway with mittens frozen
in perpetual waves to passersby?
Who wouldn't pause in admiration
at modern miracle nets--
lights spaced exactly and blinking
over evergreen hedges
to the tune of Jingle Bells
piped into fluorescent light fixtures
above Walmart masses bent on spending
dollars not yet made?

Who doesn't love gifts that disappoint
and Christmas trees losing needles onto K-Mart asphalt
and credit card bills not yet paid off from Christmases past?

Still--
For every Grinch stealing Christmas
there's a believer--
someone happily sloshing through stands of pine
looking for the perfect balsam fir,
someone grateful for family gatherings
and the indoor smell of evergreens
and mulled cider simmering stove top
and presents wrapped on Christmas Eve
and carols before midnight services
and stocking toes plump with clementines
and tromps through silent forests
to find and cut the perfect tree,
to drag it over snow with pitch-sticky fingers,
to stand it in a livingroom corner,
and place an angel at its top and ornaments
from Christmases past on each of its branches?

For all the crass commercialism,
for all the slaughtered baby trees,
for all the gifts you never wanted
and the ones you did but didn't get,
for all the expectations unmet,
there's still nothing quite like
the silence of Christmas Eve,
when gifts nestle beneath branches
and Christmas lights alone
fill livingrooms everywhere
with silence and awe.

Christmas is for Yuletide lovers
and Grinches alike.
Let it work its magic
and send forth the peace that comes
to those who watch and wait
in wonder.

Sunday Afternoon at the Rockland Breakwater

We march, matching strides, along Rockland's Breakwater,
with January thaw breezes and a warming sun out of place
in the last days before winter's solstice.
We step around tidal pools afloat with ice,
past urchins smashed by careless boots
past sea ducks that strike glittering poses
in smart black and white tuxedos
among the dowdy gulls.

Our bodies take pleasure in the act of striding
in the almost-warm sand releasing sea glass
in the slap of boots upon granite
in the caress of an out-of-season sun
in the lapping of the waves
in the explosion of spray on seashore boulders
in the taste of salt in the December air.

Our minds walk separately,
cueing into the possibility of discord
bearing up under an erratic pulse
giving in to the loss of harmony
believing imagination's folly.

At breakwater's end, we sit on a bench,
align our physical bodies with the swath of yellow
sun that beats upon the water. This warmth cuts through
the questioning, the worrying, the foolish presumptions--

I rest my head upon your shoulder
uncertain why it feels suddenly fine to do so
but grateful for its welcoming warmth.

Breakwater Journey

Breakwater journey--
winter tidal pools hold life
all but suspended.

An Evergreen Beginning

There is a place steep,
with canyon walls narrow
as inlets of water newly suspended
under the season's first skim of ice.
There, tongues tangle, one body slips
into another. Emotions arise
like trail-side stalagmites.
Inflections of voice and gesture
float to the surface
far from wary yesterday.

I think of you while passing
through a morning snow squall,
its white outs enveloping me,
suspending me, like the platform
of a body taut with anticipation.

I park my car, step onto frozen asphalt.
A winter wind slips past my neck,
reminding me of your summer breath
on the nape of that neck.

Later, I curl myself into the shape
of your slumber, and as I pace
my breathing to your own
I realize that we are different
and feel a sudden settling
into that difference.

There is no complacency,
nothing commonplace
about the place
we find ourselves in.

There is so much joy in this beginning,
no labor of love, just love's inhalation.

Tonight, as I watch the moon
cut a diamond swath across the bay
I cannot wait to feel the warmth
of your smile, to put myself once more
into your embrace, to feel anew
this thing without name,
this burgeoning emotion,
this evergreen beginning.