Wanting

When I was a child at this time of year I spent a lot of time thinking about what I wanted for Christmas, and I made a list every year for Santa and later for my parents. But I was reminded that it's always better to give than receive, and now I spend a lot of time thinking about what to give to others rather than what I want for myself. I suspect many, if not most, adults focus more on giving than getting. But some adults have no trouble identifying what they want, and then going out and getting it. Sometimes that's a good thing, a sign of ambition and success. Sometimes it's just being selfish.

But sometimes we have to be selfish to take care of ourselves.We have to acknowledge what we want and then we have to find the time or resources to get it. For some, it might be a new puppy or a new pair of boots. For others, it might be time with friends. For me, what I want most is peace and harmony in my life.

Make a list of what you want, first just in whatever order the thoughts come. Then rewrite the list: in order of importance, or in order of ease, or in the order
that sounds best to your ears. When you're done, sit back and reread what you wrote. Fine someone to share your lists with. And see if somehow the magic of the season helps you get what you most want after all.

Christmas Memories

For many of us, this time of year means a flood of memories from years gone by. We remember the joys of the Christmas season, but the holidays can also highlight our losses. As hard as it is, we need to try to keep it all balanced.

Writing about the good times, and the losses, can help maintain that balance. And when writing to process memories, sensory imagery works wonders. When you describe the memory, put yourself back there, almost as though you were hypnotized. What did you see? Smell? Hear, taste, or feel? What did you sense?
For me, Christmas is all about family: both the joys and the losses.


I remember, in my childhood, the sounds of Mitch Miller singing Christmas carols and the jingle of bells everywhere. I remember the smell of fresh-baked cookies as the season progessed and of roast turkey on that special day. No matter which year I think back to, I can see the twinkling lights, the glimmering ornaments, the palette of reds and greens and golds and silvers. I can still feel snowflakes on my tongue when I think about it. I remember the acidic wine that my parents used to pour, only on special holidays.

Those were the good times. As for losses, it's almost the opposite. I hear the silence in our home; I see a naked tree longing to be dressed. I feel the emptiness, sometimes as though I were living in a vacuum. But then the snow flits down from the sky and I run outside, stick out my tongue. It's cold and sticky and wet and tastes exactly as I remember, and that makes me smile.

So now it's your turn. Write down your joyous memories and your painful ones and then explore them with all your senses, and see how you feel when you're done. My guess? A little more in balance, and a little more grateful.

It's Not Just a Body

Jane Hirshfield started her poem, A Hand, as follows:

A hand is not four fingers and a thumb.

She ends it by suggesting that a hand, turned upward, holds only a single transparent question.

Today I have my feet up, not because I am lazy or relaxing or deserving of rest. My feet are up because one of them had surgery yeseterday. My left foot was instructed to sit around today, elevated. My right foot is going along for the ride in support.

And how little we tend to think of our feet (or our hands, dear Jane) on a given day. I use my feet to move things around my house. I use them to go see my children in concert. I use them to be sure my dog hasn't been left in the freezing cold and to mail a birthday card to my nephew and to get to the phone to hear more about my aunt's death. I use them to buy Christmas presents and make dinner and walk in the warm sand. I use them to climb into bed with my husband and to get up from a kneeling position when I pray and to hold myself in all sorts of yoga asanas. I use my feet to connect myself with the world.

A foot is not just an appendage with five toes. My feet are my roots. I like them.

Think about your foot, or a different body part if that makes more sense to you. How much do you depend on it, functionally, and otherwise? How would your life be different without it? Hirshfield said a hand is a vessel for holding questions. I believe my feet are like roots.

Find a metaphor for the body part you are thinking about, and appreciating, and write about it.

Ultimatums

I wrote in my other blog today about ultimatums. They serve a purpose: they set boundaries and clarify who is in control. Sometimes they may seem to work, but there is always a hidden cost.

Dorothy Parker began her poem, "Ultimatum," this way:

I'm wearied of wearying love, my friend,
Of worry and strain and doubt;
Before we begin, let us view the end,
And maybe we'll do without.
There's never the pang that was worth the tear,
And toss in the night I won't-
So either you do or you don't, my dear,
Either you do or you don't.

Spend some time thinking about an ultimatum you've experienced. It might be one you issued to another person, or one that was imposed upon you. It could have been something that happened in school or at work, or something between you and another individual in your personal life. Reflect back on what worked, and what the costs may have been, and how the situation could have been handled. Then, write about it.