One Little Moment More

I hope you all are enjoying a warm and meaningful holiday season. I am learning with each year that all the cookies and Christmas music in the world won't stop normal, everyday life from happening, even though these little rituals of mine still hold something precious for me.

One huge piece of my heart at Christmas is filled with memories of my mother and father indulging in traditions or activities that had the greatest impact on me. My father has been dead for many, many years, but I still remember sitting around the dining room with my family listening to all kinds of music while he would spin out a tale or encourage a debate over one thing or another. I remember going out with him into the grove of neatly-planted pine trees that someone in our home's past had the foresight to plant, and picking and cutting down the tree for the year. I loved how it smelled, and the excitement of mounting it into the stand on the platform. We had steam radiators so it rarely got too dry -- a good thing for an old brick house built by Quakers in 1825.

Memories of my mother were different; when we lost our father, everything changed and it was all on her. She bore that particular mantle with mixed reviews, but she bore it out of love and determination that her children, in particular her daughters (my brothers had all grown and moved out by the time Dad died), would be well taken care of and would have the capacity to succeed. My sister has certainly reached this but the jury is still out on yours truly.

Mostly I remember the long, long hours I spent with my mother in her kitchen. Once we moved down and out from the country and into town, her Victorian home was the heart of our family's every major event as well as all the little ones in between. We would "waste" entire evenings sitting in the kitchen and dissecting life while we knew we had a ton of preparation for some big family gathering the next day. In later years, when she was unable to do as much, we all got a kick out of how she still managed our every move, from getting the pineapple tarts out of the pan to stirring the chile con queso. And, once we had children: "Don't you think he needs a little milk with that?" Or, even to my adult friends: "How about a little milk with that?"

Both my parents died as we were entering the holidays. Maybe the gusto with which they celebrated is the reason I take the holiday preparation and all the trimmings so seriously, and typically undertake the baking, gift wrapping, and magical role of Santa with such enthusiasm. But over the years I have come to realize that what really matters is the time we spend together enjoying it all, that the reason my mother worked so hard was so that those moments were that much richer, merrier, and more magical.

The time we have here is indeed magical, temporary, wondrous. Christmas is just a good reason to remind ourselves of this, but really we need to keep that in mind daily, so that every interaction, every moment, holds some meaning. Yes, that's nearly impossible, but living with intention is the best gift we can give to ourselves and to the people we love.

A few weeks ago, my former mother-in-law was discovered to have an aggressive form of lung cancer. While none of us were all that surprised that it was there, the rapidity at which her condition has worsened was an unexpected portal to the holidays for my former husband, his brother and sister, and their father. My parents both died suddenly, the gift being that we did not have to watch them suffer and deteriorate. Despite that being the case with my ex's family, the gift within this situation is the time to have with her just one more memory shared, one more game of Euchre, one more moment.

As I cleaned up my house yesterday and got dinner ready for my ex and our kids, I listened to a wonderful cd made for me as a Christmas present. The last song is one I want to share with you. It was written by and is performed by Gillian Welch, who is one of the most important women in bluegrass music, and one of my favorite performers (with her partner, David Rawlings) of all time. I love this song; contained within its simple lyric is a quiet ferocity for living, for exhausting every joy, every chance at loving, and for leaving no song unwritten and unsung. This ferocity for life and for welcoming what it brings to us, and finding a place in our lives for every good and bad moment, is the most important gift my parents gave to me. I wish I could pass it on to you, but for now, this song will have to do.

One Little Song
Gillian Welch
(from, appropriately enough, her album, Soul Journey)

There’s gotta be a song left to sing
Cause everybody can’t of thought of everything
One little song that ain’t been sung
One little rag that ain’t been wrung out completely yet
Gotta a little left

One little drop of fallin rain
One little chance to try again
One little bird that makes it every now and then
One little piece of endless sky
One little taste of cherry pie
One little week in paradise and I start thinkin’

There’s gotta be a song left to sing
Cause everybody can’t of thought of everything
One little note that ain’t been used
One little word ain’t been abused a thousand times
In a thousand rhymes

One little drop of fallin' rain
One little chance to try again
One little bird that makes it every now and then
One little piece of endless sky
One little taste of cherry pie
One little week in paradise and I start thinkin’

Gotta be a song left to sing
Cause everybody can’t of thought of everything
One little song that ain’t been sung
One little rag that ain’t been wrung out completely yet
Till there’s nothing left