Hold Fast That Which Is Good
One day near the end of often inauspicious 2020 my annual restlessness that wells up after the holidays was amplified by the long duration of a year that went by so quickly. Looking out at fresh snowfall under a clearing sky, I recalled a sign for a hiking trail I had passed on my way back from a recent errand. It was a little different than my typical roadside find which might disappear from the end of some driveway if I didn’t rescue it on the spot. Bundled into warm gear, I set out to explore my new discovery. A map mounted on a rough hewn, wooden marquee greeted me at the edge of the Ice Age Trail. Just past the sign, the path curved, offering a choice. I selected the longer trace that wound past Loew Lake.
Evergreen trees, the tallest of which likely had seen at least as many winters as I, stood sentinel, shoulders back, hoary heads held high against the wind. Mere moments into my trek there was no sign or sound of human concocting save the clearly, but discreetly, marked path nearly unmarred by footprints. Up a rise, a stand of trees shrouded a ghostly trail that dissolved into their midst, as if it were the entrance to winter-bound Narnia. I half expected to see Tumnus in his scarf, umbrella firmly raised against snow showers drifting down from treetops with each frosted gust. The main trail continued through a gateway formed by a pair of bare-limbed deciduous trees as it curved down toward the water's edge.
In December I had not done much writing, affording time to pause and take stock of the year and prepare for the holidays. The time of revelry and reflection having passed, my year-end excursion found my hungry imagination feasting on every vista as if a new storyline waited around the next bend or down a nearby deer track. A maple leaf, remnant of fall’s golden splendor, floated across my path like a page torn from my autumn musings. An infant fir, standing amidst the greater, more established trees, reminded me of my emerging occupation as a writer. I felt encouraged that I, like the seedling, had only to persist in growing to achieve greater heights. Words, my beloved companions, crowded together in my brain to take in splendid glories, dazzling in silver sunlight that kissed each confection of wood and water under a soft white sky.
Revelations and imagery gleaned on that hike circled my brain in the days that followed. I attended to the task of packing up Christmas once more on the eve of the New Year. The following day we tentatively welcomed its arrival with a few friends. As nascent days of 2021 progressed I overheard someone suggest that its older sibling, 2020, should be put out at the curb with the dried up tree and leftover holiday trash. While I understand the sentiment of those who have had quite enough of a year marred by loss of the familiar, of family, of the future dreamed of in 2019, my thrifting instinct moved me to sift through the remains for what might still be useful.
What of my 2020 would still prove valuable in the days ahead? What needed to go to the curb? What could be given away for others to use?
I had written throughout the year about the rather abrupt change to my career. Now on the cusp of 2021, though the ugliness of the how and why—and the fear and pain that resulted—needed to be put aside, I realized that even in the losing I had found something worth retaining. I had discovered that the core of my malaise was feeling cut loose from familiar mooring, adrift as though no longer needed. Was I being left at the curb when I was certain I still had more to give? I came to accept that even before closing my practice, my life had changed. My job had for some time allowed me to hide from that fact. My children, long since grown, were living independent lives from mine, pursuing their own dreams. I was no longer needed by them in the old familiar ways. Recognizing this kernel of truth about myself has shown me new avenues of usefulness, if I will but pursue them.
With the loss of one occupation in 2020 I gained the time to devote to another, a long cherished dream. I get to live that dream every time I sit here at the keyboard. I am bagging up thoughts for the trash, however, that the validation of this dream resides only in achieving publication. I’m no ninny, of course. I want to see my books published even as I love to see my children go forth into the world to make their mark. I have learned, though, that the validation is in the writing itself. Though not yet published, I am an author.
In 2020 I gained appreciation for the serendipitous: From the one-of-a-kind leather journal cover that confirmed a dream, to the arrival of two new friendships. Through heartfelt generosity of spirit, these women came bearing treasure that had been missing in my life. They encourage me in my doldrums and celebrate every victory, no matter how small.
In coming to terms with growing older this past year, I found myself fascinated by the significance of memory to human experience. As we age, long ago remembrances take on a clarity and importance not necessarily tethered to obvious utility. It has been said that one’s life passes before one at the time of death. It seems to me that as I get older, memories arise in a slow procession rather than all at once, a sort of preview of coming reminiscence. Days spent this past year sorting old photos from my children’s childhood, and older still snapshots of my own, found me telling my heart the stories so that at least someone will hear them. I cherish my discovery in 2020 that a niece desires to hear tales of my parents. We began that journey over dinner last February, and will go on, I trust, as life again permits.
The Christmas season is a most poignant reminder for me of how memory lives on in all my senses, and how the culinary arts can bridge the distance betwixt present and past. When I was a child, December was filled with the thrill of anticipation, not just of bright paper and bows camouflaging gifts of toys or clothes, but of The Story. The arrival of the day itself seemed to pale in comparison to the time of waiting that culminated in the mysterious and other worldly: candlelight, choirs at midnight, my young heart peering through the gossamer thinning of the space-time veil to catch a glimpse of long ago shadows on their trek from lonely fields led by preternatural light to a cave strewn with hay and wonder.
Whether approached with faith or skepticism, one must concede Christmas inspires great storytelling: Mysterious messages from extraterrestrial creatures, undertakings demanding the courage to believe the unbelievable. Treacherous journeys laced with suspense and danger, underwritten by cosmic forces coordinating to engender the seemingly coincidental, all weaving a tale of romance and heroism, the promised triumph of goodness and peace.
My mother, the keeper of these mysteries, was only with me for twelve Christmases. From the tiny crèche she lovingly arranged each Advent, to the cookies and treats that sustained the season, her memory is an inextricable part of this time of year for me. Lists and recipes etched in the precise, miniature script of the former bookkeeping executive still preside over my own collection of holiday confections.
Though I have endeavored to bequeath this heritage to my own children, this past Christmas, both of them were far away. New health issues for one of them, and a move and travel for the other, left me wondering if I should forgo the annual observance of Christmas cookie baking. Would it, too, be dismissed by strange, austere 2020 as humbug?
In early December, on a morning dusted with snow, carols playing, I pulled out the fixings and a recipe cached in the 1939 Wisconsin Electric Company Christmas cookie book. I set about making little pecan pastries dredged in powdered sugar, a favorite specialty of my mother. Perfect little mounds of snow lined up in a military array on wax paper covered racks. The space between past and present narrowed, as the memory of a little girl at her mother’s elbow grew almost tangible. Though my mother has been gone these many years, the artifacts of her artistry, the memories of the mysteries, shine with the revelation that her gift lives on in me, and in turn, in my own children.
I returned to the Ice Age Trail this week, retracing the steps I had taken at year’s end. The feet of many a wayfarer had rendered the trail packed and slick. The array of flora and wildwood resting beneath frothy white was still lovely. The wonder of first discovery, though, was now just a memory. But memories, I have learned, in this year of pain and epiphany, do not die. They live in me, in who I am and all I give. The challenge for the future will be to put them to best use, in the making of new remembrances, the learning of lessons yet to be.
Thrifting this unusual year just concluded has left me richer: I have found the wisdom embedded in self-awareness, gratitude for memories and all that they teach, appreciation for the timeless traditions that foster them. Anchors in a storm of change and uncertainty, the stories of who we are and where we’ve been remind us that though difficult times have been here before, somehow life overwhelms what seems dark, foreboding, final. Goodness shall defeat evil in the end. Peace will one day come to stay for good.
“But memories, I have learned, in this year of pain and epiphany, do not die. They live in me, in who I am and all I give. The challenge for the future will be to put them to best use, in the making of new remembrances, the learning of lessons yet to be.”
