Christmas Archives - Laurell K. Hamilton

A Ginger Cat for Christmas

This is Magnus, and he’s the wrong cat. We adopted him this summer, but we meant to adopt a different cat. We wanted another black cat to go with the reigning dark empress of our home, Grizelda, Grizzy. I’ve never seen my husband so taken with any pet we’ve ever had. Grizzy has chosen him as her “hooman” and she has us all wrapped her dainty black paw. She was at least six years old when we adopted her and she has totally won us over to adopting older cats. They come litter box trained, they aren’t the wrecking crew that kittens can be, and they’re just mellower energy. We are big fans of adopting an older cat, because that is the cat you’re getting, with kittens you have to wait two to three years to see what the true personality is going to be. So, we wanted a cat that was at least two years old, and six to eight on the high end, though for the right cat we were willing to go for ten, since Grizzy could be that old. We thought two older cats would have matching energy levels. We preferred black, because cat or dog, it’s one of the last animals to be adopted. An older black cat, or dog is almost doomed at a shelter. If we could find a cat that had FIV, Feline Immunodeficiency Virus , then that would be the full sweep of hard to place cat.

We had our list and our reasons for it, so we set out to adopt a second cat. We went back to the wonderful rescue that we got Grizzy from, St. Louis Pet Rescue, Stlpetrescue. But a weird thing kept happening, all the cats we were attracted to were young ones. They looked like grown cats and were about the size of our dainty Grizzy, but they weren’t. Seven months, eight, nine, always under a year, so we kept saying, no. Also, most of them were not black. We tried, and there was one very handsome black cat, with long curls, named, Sabbath. Black Sabbath, I mean how could we not love the name? He was a gorgeous cat and he knew it, very confident when we interacted with him in one of the small rooms. He had Grizzy’s confidence when she first walked into our home. Grizelda and Sabbath, nicely witchy and two black cats! My inner twelve-year-old who had wanted a black cat more than anything, was thrilled.

Sabbath bit us, not hard, not to bleed, but it hurt. He’d be rubbing up against us and purring, and then nip. We’d be petting and he’d love it, and he’d nip. The foster mom couldn’t understand it, he’d never done anything like that before. He was only seven months old so he might mellow, but he wasn’t going to mellow at our house. We passed on the handsome rogue.

She had one other cat with her that was male, two years old, sweet and laid back. His name was Sweetpea, and we’d walked right by him in his cage, when we spotted Sabbath. Sweetpea had been everything the other cat wasn’t, quiet, nervous, and not coping well with the chaos of the adoption event. We hadn’t given him a second look. He was a yellow tabby cat, but not dark gold, more pale, dilute tabby I think it’s called, so even for a tabby he didn’t stand out. His gold eyes blended with his face unlike the brilliant contrast of Sabbath’s yellow set in black. His foster even said, “He’s not very pretty,” as she got him out of the cage. But the moment the light him, his stripes showed more, and I instantly disagreed. And he was almost twice the size of the first cat, so double Grizzy’s size. He was a big, Tom cat. We took him back to the same small room where we’d just had the first cat. Sweetpea did not stroll around the room scent marking and owning the space. He sat in our laps, and I mean he sat from my thighs to my husband’s, like I said he was a big cat. He huddled there, startling anytime one of the dogs barked out in the adoption event. He shivered and was so scared. He just seemed to be saying, take me home, take me somewhere safe and quiet, get me out of here. We actually went home and discussed it, before saying, yes, because he was the wrong cat except for his age, he was nothing on our list, but in the end we said, yes.

We changed his name to Magnus Maximus, and within a few days he knew Magnus was his name. He was better with our two dogs than Grizzy, cuddling up with them in big piles. But it wasn’t a perfect fit between him and Grizzy, even though we did everything the rescue sites say to do about keeping them separate and a slow introduction. He was as social a cat as she was anti-social. She loves her humans, but she’d be our only pet if she could manage it. The fights that most cats do to establish territory inside a new place were scary because of his size. He just overwhelmed her. Even when she started it, she was just out of her weight class. We thought seriously about not keeping him, but we loved him. We started cycling them through parts of the house, Grizzy is still the only one allowed in my husband’s office. We still have to use the squirt bottles from time to time, but Magnus has worked hard for Grizzy to let him lay close to him, and she’s even let him groom her head a few times, until she bitch slaps him. He’s been very patient with her, and they can sniff noses without her growling. She even sniffed his tail the other day and when he swished it in her face she put her paw on his butt, like she does my husband when she’s grooming his hair and he moves too much, a tiny prick of claws that says, clearly stop moving. Magnus let her do it, just like my husband does, she really is our dark, bossy empress.

Did I mention that the trip to get Magnus checked by our vet came with a surprise? Vet said Magnus wasn’t two, he was between eight months and a year, so just a really big kitten. His size had made the rescue up his age, and when you have twenty fosters in the same house, who could blame anyone for the mistake? The vet said, he’d easily reach twenty pounds when he matured, so not what we bargained for, but by then, he was ours. There were doubts after that, see above, but we’re so glad we worked through it all and didn’t give up because once a cat goes back into rescue it can be harder to place them a second time, people wonder why they got returned, and usually blame the animal, when it’s usually just normal pet things that people give up on.

I woke up this Christmas morning with Magnus curled next to me purring like a motor under my arm. He sleeps most nights in the bedroom with us. Grizzy shares the bed usually on the other side of my husband away from Magnus, but for her, well, she likes Magnus in a cranky, non social cat way. She’s the house panther to his social lion. I keep threatening that we’ll get another lion for him to play with if she doesn’t start playing more with him, but she gives me that look, the one that says, I’m being ridiculous. I suppose I am, cats do not change unless they wish to, and Grizzy is very cat.

When I was six I wanted a white kitten, by age twelve I wanted a black one, but over the years the cats that have come the closest to being mine have all been ginger cats. One, my grandmother relented on and it fell ill and died before I could even get it a collar. The second belonged to a neighbor and I was still deathly allergic to cats, and we had parrots in our tiny apartment. That Ginger cat was a mighty hunter leaving bunnies and birds and other bits on my doorstep all spring and summer to try and bribe his way into the house. He’d have made short work of our parrots. I grew allergic to them, too, and so in the divorce my first husband got the parrot and I got the dogs. Twenty years of allergy shots and I can have cats! So Grizzy for my inner twelve-year-old, and the ginger cats can stop stalking me, because I have one of my own, at last. Magnus Maximus, Max, Magnus the Magnificent, Mags, Mag wheel, our house lion, our Magnus.

This is his first Christmas as a house cat. He was a stray last winter, a kitten in the snow, picked up in March of 2019 by a kill shelter. He was a big, adult looking Tom cat not flashy, scared and didn’t show well in his cage, if Stlpetrescue hadn’t pulled him in that same month and put him in foster care, he’d have been euthanized and that’s one of the reasons they rescued him, because his time was running out. I’m so thankful that they saved him. Thanks to Barb who fostered both our cats, and thanks to Sabbath for blowing his “coffee date” date with us, so we’d look behind the scared, quiet cat in the other cage and find the friendly, chatty, cat he has grown to be. I finally have a ginger cat for Christmas, now if I can just add that white cat for my inner six-year-old … husband says, no. Grizzy says, never! Dogs don’t care. Our daughter says, yes, please! Magnus says, a playmate, bring it on!

You be you, Boo-boo, and I’ll be me.

I tried to be jollier than I actually felt for the family holiday get-together. I had these candy cane tights that Genevieve had helped me find; I used to love Christmas the way she loves Halloween, but even at my most ho-ho-ho, I never dressed in the bold colors of the season. I’ve owned one Christmas Sweater in my life and it was a gift. But I had these tights so I put them on and then I had a red skirt and a red shirt and even red laces in my boots. I looked very festive, but the more I passed a mirror the less like me I looked. Who was this person dressed all in bright red with candy canes on their legs? It was jarring every time I caught a glimpse of myself, like seeing a stranger when you were expecting to just see yourself.

I tried to keep the outfit on until the family arrived, and I made it for the first guests that arrived a little early, but by that time I was so unhappy that I excused myself and went up to change. I tried just changing red skirt for black, the boots were black so it still matched. I looked in the mirror and it was a relief to see less color and more black, some tension eased in my shoulders that had been growing all day. But it still wasn’t enough, I still didn’t feel like me, so I got out a black shirt with white lettering that says, “I’m only here because I heard Santa’s elves would be here.” There are red and green elf hats at the bottom of the shirt, but other than that it’s black. I put that on and suddenly there was enough black to balance out the bright blue, red, and green of the candy cane tights. This I could manage.

I went back downstairs to greet more guests still looking festive, but when I caught glimpses of myself in the mirrors it still looked like me. I was much happier and the evening went well. It was a good holiday with everyone, but to enjoy it I had to be me. That’s my bit of wisdom to share today, be yourself. If you are a Who down in Whoville that wants to decorate the house from top to bottom including a Santa Claus Hat with a bell on it for yourself and an apron covered in gingerbread men then go for it; be happy! But if you’re more Grinch, or Goth, then honor that. Find a black t-shirt with a funny, but non-insulting holiday image on it ( I say non-insulting if you’re going to be around family or friends that are more Whoville than you are. Let’s not start the family brawl if we can avoid it.) On the other hand, my fellow Goths do not let The Who’s pressure you into dressing like they do, unless you want to do it. Do not let them put you in something that makes you feel like a stranger to yourself, as if the body snatchers have come and whisked you away. Be yourself, especially during the holidays. It’s stressful enough without feeling like you’re wearing someone else’s clothes. And for you happy Who’s don’t get mad at your Grinch or Goth, if they want to wear black even on Christmas Day. It’s who they are and you love them, right?

So let’s avoid the Christmas wars this year and everyone be themselves. Be the happiest most you version of yourself this year and remember to honor the people you love and their level of Christmas cheer. If you are a Who, allow the family Goths to wear black, or at least don’t force them to wear that bright sweater with the glowing reindeer on it. If you’re a Grinch, don’t suck the happiness out of your family Who’s by behaving as if just sitting down to dinner with all of them is torture worthy of the Spanish Inquisition. Also, no sullenness or whining unless you’re under ten and need a nap. Sullenness and whining sucks the crunchy goodness out of everyone’s holiday no matter what side of Santa’s list you’re on.

So happy holidays, everyone! May you Who’s enjoy the season, the whole shiny package! May you Grinch’s find something to enjoy in between all this crass commercialism! May you Goths find a black shirt that celebrates the season just enough to keep the rest of the family from shoving you into an ugly holiday sweater! May those of you who love the big family and friends dinners have all the happy togetherness and great food you want! May those of you who think that Christmas should be spent alone reading by a fire with not a mouse stirring find your peaceful haven! Whatever the holidays mean to you, whatever will bring you the most joy, the most peace, the most contentment may you find it for the holidays and all the rest of the new year.

Holidays and the Broken Pieces

Twenty years of allergy shots and I finally have a cat. My inner five-year-old is very happy.

Do we ever get over wanting our parents to approve of us? Do we ever get over wanting that Hallmark movie moment with them? For most of us the answer is, no. No matter how old we get, or how accomplished we are. There’s still a part of us that is five and wants to jump up and down, and say, “Look at me! Look at me!” Or fourteen and wanting that word of praise on the football field, or at the science fair, or just anywhere, any time from the person who raised us.

I think this is part of what makes the holidays so stressful for many of us, that we’re still chasing our parents’s approval. For many of us it’s a rigged game, like carnival games that no matter how good you are, you can’t win. You’re never going to get that stuffed panda, or an atta boy, or atta girl from your parent. So how do you keep those unmet needs from ruining your holidays, and maybe raining on everyone else’s?

Honor that excited five-year-old. Don’t tell yourself I’m twenty-four, or forty-four, and too old to still be stuck there. (I tried that for years and it just doesn’t work.) Honor that awkward fourteen-year-old that’s still stuck under the mistletoe with no one to love. You can have more than one inner child inside you feeling lost and alone, and they’ll be different ages, so honor them all. Honor that moment that you didn’t get your needs met, or when the world collapsed around you and part of you got stuck. Sometimes it’s a true trauma, a death in the family that you were too young to deal with, but it can be much less trauma worthy to the outside world and still have hurt you deeply. Don’t tell yourself that it wasn’t that big a deal that you didn’t get asked to the Christmas dance, not if your fifteen-year-old self is still stuck there feeling unloved and unwanted. Honor your teenage self by dragging the memory into the light and telling her it’s all right. If you have romantic partner tell them about it, and let them help you comfort that stuck part of you, and maybe just maybe you can begin to unstick yourself and heal.

If the hurt involves family sometimes you can share it with them and that can sort of exorcise the ghosts of past pain, but if the circumstances that caused the pain are still present they may not be much help. Or they’ll tell you, that was so long ago, why are you the only one holding onto that? Just because it wasn’t a trauma to your brother, doesn’t mean it wasn’t one to you, so honor your inner child and love yourself. Sometimes you can’t explain it to your birth family, but you, yourself can love and honor your own inner self. You can love your own inner child.

If at five you didn’t get the teddy bear Santa promised you, and there’s still a part of you that’s moping over that long ago Christmas, then go out and buy yourself a teddy bear. Sometimes literally you can parent that inner part of yourself. If that stuffed toy, or train set, or sparkly dress not being yours is still making part of you that unhappy, stop telling yourself you should be over it by now and gift yourself. Sometimes it can be that simple, and no one has to understand why that in the box mint train set means so much to you. The only one that really has to know is you and that inner five/ten/twelve year-old.

If your inner child is tired of your mother fixing your favorite vegetable every year, because it’s actually your sister’s favorite vegetable, and you actually hate black-eyed peas, then cook your very favorite vegetable and bring it with you. You know what your favorite things are, cook them, make them, and bring them yourself. I hear some of you out there saying, but I want my mother to acknowledge me, rather than her favorite which happens to be my sister. Well, yeah, so did I, but waiting for your parent to fix an issue they don’t realize is an issue, is sort of a losing proposition for you. If you’ve told your parent that it’s not your favorite veggie for years and they still can’t remember, then it’s not going to happen. I’m sorry, but you can fix your own favorite veggie and bring it, or bring the fixings for the dish and cook it there in your childhood kitchen. Think how empowering it is to not only fix your own favorite food, but to do it in the midst of all those childhood ghosts.

You do not have to wait on your family to acknowledge your pain, or your unhappiness. You can acknowledge it and act on it, because that way you are in charge of it. You can parent your own inner child rather than waiting for someone else, that puts the power to heal yourself in your own hands. You can love yourself and love your inner child/children. You can take control of it and be the adult you, yourself needs, or needed long ago. Empower yourself this holiday season and treat your inner child as if they were a real life child that could take your physical hand and look up at you. Do for that younger part of you what you couldn’t do then, and maybe it can still be the happiest time of the year.

The least wonderful time of the year

Christmas used to be my favorite holiday of the year, but that was awhile ago. I realized this year that I hate Christmas, the whole Christmas season, but unlike Dr. Seuss’ Grinch I don’t want to take the holiday away from everyone else, I just want free of it myself.

It’s Winter Solstice, the longest night of the year and the reason for all the celebrations near that astrological happening is that our ancestors were afraid that the sun might not return. They were an agricultural people that understood that without the heat of the sun, they were pretty much screwed, so they threw a party to invite the sun back, to wish him back to life and strength so that we could all live another year. It was the rebirth of the sun long before Christianity made it the birth of the son of God. I get throwing a great, big party to keep our spirits up. It’s like whistling in the dark when you hear that scary noise. We celebrate Winter Solstice because in the darkest, coldest part of the year we need to light a few candles against the dark, eat good food, drink strong spirits, visit with friends and family, play games, tell stories, and do all the things that make us feel positive and less afraid of the darkness. If that’s what the holiday was actually about, I could get behind that, even enjoy it, but that’s not what Solstice, Christmas, Yule, Hanukah – pick your holiday – has become.

The Winter Holiday season has become a billion dollar industry. It has become the time when a lot of businesses make the majority of their profit for the year and the only way they can do that is by us buying things from them. Now, there’s nothing wrong with that, I am a great fan of capitalism, being a capitalist myself, but the pressure to buy gifts, the perfect gift, and find that perfect gift year after year is a lot of pressure. The message that somehow if you don’t spend enough on your family, especially the children, that you’re bad parents. I love Santa Claus, but for those parents that can’t afford the big gifts, it is an ideal that leaves a lot of small children across the country disappointed on Christmas morning.

And let me just say now, I feel totally cheated by years of Hallmark and Folger’s Coffee commercials, because life is almost never like that, or at least my life wasn’t. These commercials, and others like them, are the romance novels of family life; they set unrealistic expectations that leave most of us feeling like there must be something wrong with us because we aren’t that warm, that loving, that perfect.

Real life is never perfect. It’s not supposed to be. So let me strike a blow for all of us that are struggling this Christmas morning with reality versus what we wanted the day to be. It’s okay that your dinner wasn’t perfect. It’s perfectly human to burn at least one dish, or have that turkey a little dry, or whatever went wrong with the big meal. Take a deep breath, let it out slow, and tell anyone that complains that next year they get to cook the dinner.

Did you not find the perfect present for everyone on your list? Me either. It’s okay, your friends and family love you anyway, and anyone who doesn’t love you because their gift didn’t meet their standards, why do you care? If they only love you for what you buy them, I’m not sure that’s love. Love really doesn’t have a price tag. Do the best you can, and then enjoy the day with your family. It’s about the people, not the things, try to remember that.

Now, if part of the problem is the family, that’s harder. If your family is not a positive in your life, then you do not have to spend the holidays with them. There, I’ve said it, if your family is toxic to you and spends most of the time criticizing and cutting you down, then you don’t have to stay and keep listening to it. If your family is so awful to you, or each other, that the idea of spending it alone sounds better, then do that. There really are those of us who have had points in our lives where spending the holidays alone was less stressful, or even less frightening, than spending it with our birth families. If you are in that place in your life, honor it. It is a privilege for your family to see you, not a right. Privileges have to be earned by good, loving behavior. Please remember, that if you only visit them when they are loving and good to be around, but they’ve never, ever been that, you may never see your family again. Are you okay with this? If so, then rock on, and enjoy your solo and less stress-filled holiday. If you are not okay with it, then ignore all this advice, good luck, and God speed.

This is supposed to be a holy day, regardless of what exactly that holiness means to you, it is still supposed to be a celebration of joy, light, love, and hope. Instead its become an emotional meat grinder for a lot of us. I want to like this holiday again. I want to feel hopeful that life can be like those tear-jerkingly happy commercials for more than a moment at a time. I want to feel a connection to community, family, and faith that’s in all the TV specials, but that seems scarce in real life. I want to really believe this is the most wonderful time of the year instead of the most stressful. I’m not sure how to get back to the wonderful and out of the stressful, but I am going to try. Here’s to next year, hoping it will be better, happier, healthier, less dramatic, less traumatic, safer, gentler, more happy excited than adrenalin pumping excited, productive, loving, hopeful, helpful, and just all together better. Blessed Solstice! Merry Christmas! Happy Hanukah! Merry Yule! Damn it!

Wreaths Across America

The rows of white stones march out and out across the neatly clipped grass, each stone marks a grave, each grave marks a soldier, or family member, who has passed. I’ve stood at Arlington National Cemetery and wept at the endless rows of headstones, but I didn’t know that there was another cemetery much closer to home where the uniform white stones march out and out. Jefferson Barracks Cemetery was established in about 1827 and made a National Cemetery in 1866, when the National Cemetery Administration was established. It’s just down the road here in St. Louis.
I’ve seen it twice this year, the first at the funeral of my sister’s father of record, and the second on the day when Wreaths Across America invites people to join them at cemeteries like Arlington and Jefferson Barracks to honor those who have paid the ultimate price for our country. Wreaths Across America is a charity that receives no money from the government, it’s all donations from people like you and me. Jonathon, Genevieve, Spike, and myself went expecting we’d be there for hours helping lay wreaths, but unfortunately there were so few wreaths that everyone in attendance was asked to only take one, or two, so that everyone there could lay at least one wreath on a grave.

A news story on CNN about Arlington National Cemetery not having enough wreaths to cover all the graves this year was what first brought Wreaths Across America to our attention. We even donated to the cause, as did many others, and it was enough so that Arlington was able to put a wreath on every grave this year. They said in the interview that most cemeteries were embraced by their local town, because so many local military were buried there, but Arlington was made up of soldiers that weren’t local, so the surrounding area didn’t feel connected enough to contribute. The interview made us think that here in St. Louis there would be enough wreaths to go around, but there was not.
In fact, there were only about 1,100 wreathes to go on the 180,000 graves. It was upsetting to see all the bare white tombstones, and the few evergreen wreaths. I guess a few was better than none, but it still seemed sad, and left all of us feeling like we need to do better next year. I’ll say it here and now, that we plan to contribute more next year and would like to have a goal of honoring many more of our fallen soldiers next year by helping our local Wreaths Across America.

The other interesting thing about the ceremony was that it was full of speeches where people talked about this country with unabashed patriotism and pride. There was no apologizing, or over explaining, or any of the language that has crept into so many politicians and citizen’s speeches lately. It harkened back to when I was a child. I was taught to be proud to be American and that it was the best country in the world to call home. You know what, I still believe that. I’ve visited several other countries and they are all wonderful in their own right, but they aren’t home. I don’t believe our country is perfect, but then the same is true of every other country. I sat there and thought, here is an entire group of people of diverse race, religion, economics, and age, but we were all there to honor the ideal that we are still the home of the brave, and the land of the free, and that last part, freedom, came with a price that the men and women lying dead around us had paid. I will not apologize for honoring the dead of my country and it was wonderfully freeing to be in such a large group of people that felt the same way.
Let me say, that if you disagree with me, that’s okay, because something else I was taught as a child was this, America is about being free to believe, to worship, to vote, to have an opinion that is your own. I may not agree with you, or you with me, but I will fight for your right to have your own opinion and beliefs, as you are supposed to fight for my right. We are supposed to fight for each other, not against each other. We can disagree vehemently, and it’s okay if our opinions anger each other, but we are still supposed to honor each other’s right to those opinions. That is what it means to be free in America. We are free to believe, to speak, to worship, to study, to work, to create as we will, and the government will not stop us, or arrest us for it. I don’t think most Americans realize how rare that is in the world.
Spike walked out among the white lines of graves in his uniform. He had been thanked for his service by several people, and thanked others in return. He still doesn’t like being too visible in the blog, but as a combat vet himself, he felt it was important to show his respect. We missed the opportunity for donating enough to Wreaths Across America to cover the graves at Jefferson Barracks, but there is always next year. The dead are patient and they’ll wait, but for the living veterans and their families it’s harder to wait. The dead have all the shelter they will ever need, they do not know hunger or thirst, sorrow or terror, the cold does not move them, illness and injury are things of the past for the dead, but there are living veterans and their families that need shelter, food, medical care, and just to know that their sacrifices aren’t in vain. Here are just a few charities that try to help the men and women who served in our armed forces, and their famili

Home

Hope for the Warriors

Home

Iraq and Afghanistan Veterans of America

Home

USO

https://www.uso.org/

New Blog – Happy Winter Solstice from Our Family to Yours

Listening to Christmas carols and the ocean, as I sit outside and write to the glow of holiday lights. The windows are open behind me so the carols on the blue tooth speaker are background noise to the pounding waves. The wind has picked up from the gentle slap of earlier. The sea had sounded almost lazy as we walked along the shore, but now the sound alone makes me know there’d be no swimming off the beach and even a small boat would be a rocky ride tonight. The stars that had been so brilliant earlier are hidden behind a thick cloud cover. It’s a black night beside the sea and even with the glow of the Christmas lights I’m strangely melancholy. I guess it’s the time of year for it, remembering the people that aren’t here for the holiday and never will be again this side of the grave. Missing my mother is a constant, but I wonder what my grandmother would think about our tower by the sea, to my knowledge she never saw the ocean and never wanted to.

I can smell the steaks cooking under Spike’s watchful eye. Genevieve is helping Jon prepare fresh green beans for pan sauté with garlic and a few other spices. It’s nearly eighty degrees outside while Bing Crosby sings about a white Christmas that will never happen here. The ocean pounds, the carols sing, the lights glow, the dogs wonder why I won’t throw the ball while I type, and it’s almost time for dinner with my polyamorous foursome. Life is good, but there will always be those people who aren’t with me at the holidays that make it a strange time of happiness and sorrow.

Trinity, our daughter, will be joining us from college later. This is her first year away and the first time she has to come back for the holidays. It is both wonderful and a little sad, as well. She is off on her own adventure and we’re thrilled, but it’s another big change and all change can translate to loss in our heads and in our hearts if we’re not careful to remember the difference. It’s all good, but it is different.

Genevieve introduced me to the song, ” All I Want for Christmas is a Real Good Tan,” by Kenny Chesney from 2003. It was pretty appropriate for this year, though we all slather ourselves up with sunscreen in an effort to avoid sunburn. The idea of a tropical holiday isn’t new. Bing Crosby and the Andrews Sisters were singing about it with, “Mele Kalikimaka” the Hawaiian Christmas song in 1950. Ella Fitzgerald crooned, “Christmas Island,” in 1960. When I was a little girl I loved having a white Christmas with lots of snow, but I’m pretty good sitting here with a warm ocean just outside the door and palm trees swaying in the tropical breeze. White sand will do just fine as a stand in for all that snow.

The picture with this blog is from my office for the day where three of the dogs helped inspire me, just like they do at home.

I hope that all of you reading this will have a wonderful holiday celebration whether it is Christmas, Chanukah, Kwanzaa, Yule, or Winter Solstice, and that family, whether of choice or of blood, gather round you. May you have friends, and if a solitary holiday is what you want I hope you enjoy your own company, because in the end no matter how many people we love, or love us, it is ourselves that we come to in the end and always.

Happy Return of the Sun, remember God/s/Goddess/es Love Us!

It was supposed to be a celebration of the return of the sun, the rebirth of the light, to help us get past the gloom of the longest night of the year, which is Winter Solstice. It was supposed to lift our spirits and reassure us that spring will come again, summer warmth will happen, we are not trapped in the bleak heart of winter to die in the dark.

Yes, all the festivities, all the good cheer, really boils down to that. Human beings have been doing something to celebrate the Winter Solstice. Almost all of the traditions have something to do with worshipping, or trying to persuade, the sun, the light, to return, to be reborn and give us their blessing again, because at some level people seemed to realize without the sun there is no more warmth. Without the sun the crops will not grow, there will be no spring lambs, or calves, or . . . We’ve understood for thousands, upon thousands of years that without the sun we’re pretty much screwed so we plead with it to return. Most of the earliest sun religions were about trying to get the sun to keep coming back and helping us grow food, and raise our spirits once more into the light, and away from the darkness of midwinter.

Originally that’s what this time of year was about, and then came Hanukkah, and Christmas. They are also celebrations of light and love, of survival against tough odds, and the conquering of the light, the son, over the forces that would destroy us all. The Israelites survived yet another attempt to wipe them out as people by the miracle of the never ending oil that burned for eight miraculous days. Jesus survived Herod’s attempts to kill him, and the implication is that if he can make it through, so can we, and that we, too, can have the protection of the Virgin Mary, and her stout right hand St. Joseph, who was a carpenter and you just feel that anyone that’s down to earth enough to work with wood must have a good head on his shoulders. In America I think that Joseph is particularly relevant as we have more and more step-parents and blended family. Think about he was step-dad to the son of God, no pressure there. He must have been a remarkable man to have stood by Mary and Jesus, and then all their other children. I love the idea that Jesus was from a big family with lots of half-brothers and sisters. But then I really like the Gospel of Thomas, which the Church deemed too dangerous to put in the Bible, or perhaps too confusing. I love Thomas, he’s always been my favorite disciple. Doubting Thomas who is invited to put his finger in the wound of the risen Christ, because Thomas doesn’t believe he’s real. There’s a man after my own heart, let me touch it, let me test it – Thomas was a sceptic and a scientist at heart, and I love him for it, because I’d want to touch the evidence to, and if you wouldn’t want to touch the risen Christ, then I can’t explain it to you, I know only that I so would have.

But I digress, but then its me, and I tend to do that. This time of year was supposed to either be a rollicking party to help us brave our way through the winter dark, or high, holy time when we worship Deity and celebrate His, Her, Their return, or try to persuade them to return to us and bless us with their light and warmth. We, as people, have a profound need for this celebration or there wouldn’t be any New Grange, the neolithic tomb mound where the Winter Solstice sun comes into that profound dark and brings hope with it. The clouds cleared away enough for the sun to actually do it’s bright job this year. The pictures were awesome.

If any of you are offended by the fact that Christmas is just one in a long line of holidays this time of year, sorry, but it’s the truth. I think the God, Almighty, and his son, Jesus, are both secure enough to accept that Winter Solstice is an astrological event, and that Yule has been around longer than spring baby Jesus has been moved to be a midwinter baby. The Church needed a holiday to turn people’s ideas from drunken revelry and what the Church saw as debauchery, to something more holy, so Jesus’s birthday was moved. I wonder if any of the Church fathers, or mothers (there really have been some) understood that Jesus was joining a long line of sons, or sun celebrations, to welcome back the sun? If you don’t believe Jesus was a spring baby, that’s okay, but there are lambs to greet him in the manager, and shepherd’s watching over their flocks by night, you don’t sleep outside in winter in that part of the world, but there is something about this cold and dark that makes all of us, even the Church, want to put something here to remind us that life will return, that there will be lambs and warmth, and new babies.

So how did a celebration of light, warmth, and proof that Deity loves us and won’t leave us to die in the dark turn into crushing social obligations, and who can buy the bestest presents?

Well, the Romans gave out gifts during Saturnalia which was a very big celebration during this time of year. Some say it’s the gifts of the Magi that gave us the idea for gifts, because of their Frankincense, Myrrh, and gold gifts to the Baby Jesus, and lets face it, their parents. That does explain how Joseph was able to leave his carpentry behind and live for awhile, those were expensive gifts of the day. Other’s say it was an early Christian Bishop named Nicholas, who helped give rise to Santa Claus, because of his charity to children in his day, and throwing bags of gold down chimneys to land in women’s stockings as dowries, according to one story. But modern ideas of gift giving seem to really come from Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol, and Clement Moore’s, A Visit from Saint Nicholas. It’s actually a very late addition to Christmas, all this gift giving, and yet it seems to overwhelm everything here in the States.

We worry about finding the perfect gift. People will put themselves in so much debt for this one season of gift giving that they spend the rest of the year paying it off. People say, don’t get me anything, and sometimes they mean it, or sometimes they keep score more than anyone else. It’s an emotional and familial politics minefield. The guilt if you can’t get your child that super popular present is very real for a lot of families. When did it become a contest to see who can spend the most money? When did gifts equate to how much you love your family? When did this season of buying become the make, or break, for most retail businesses? I’ve been researching and I can’t find enough agreement on any of the above to be certain, but I do know that whatever this holiday is about to you and yours, it’s not supposed to be about who has the most toys, the most stuff. It’s supposed to be about love and fun. Either God loves us, or Jesus loves us, or we’re supposed to be having wonderful raucous parties and orgies for Saturn and “love” lots, or raise a glass to Odin and the Norse and have a huge party with our friends and families, or we just light a fire and help chase away the darkness knowing that Deity really does love and care for the Earth, animals, and people it and will not leave us to die in the cold dark. It’s a fertility festival, a celebration of life, and birth, thrown into the face of the darkest, deadest, part of the year – we’re supposed to celebrate life, whatever that means to each us.

So celebrate life and love today, whether that means being with huge extended family, or family of choice, or just with your spouse/partner, or just you and your pets, or just you. Remember in all this gift giving and forced merry making that you’re supposed to love yourself, too, and sometimes a little time to yourself is the greatest gift of all. So whether you are knee deep in children and the post gift explosion of presents, or you are enjoying that first cup of tea with no one, but yourself enjoy this moment and remember it really isn’t about the gifts, it’s about the love.

Happy Yule and Merry Christmas to all!

I woke early This Christmas/Yule morning eager to write. I kissed my husband, Jon, awake and then let him curl back under the covers and sleep. Trinity had spent Christmas Eve with her father, so she wasn’t due to be dropped off until around noon. My sister, Chica, and her partner were still asleep in her room. Even the dogs had decided to sleep in, Mordor rolling an eye at me, and going back to sleep, which lets you know how early it was, truly a moment when nothing was stirring, not even a mouse, well, and a writer.

I did what I do every morning and entered sacred space with candles to mark the quarters, the directions of North, East, South, and West. I also light a candle for Spirit, which not everyone does, but the candles for God and Goddess are always lit. I gave thanks for this beautiful morning and time to myself to think, reflect, and create.

I worked on Affliction which is the next Anita Blake novel, but first I worked on a brand new story idea. I’d written down a few sentences of it days ago when the idea first waved it’s hands at me, so to speak. To my surprise it was the first thing that came to me this morning. I guess, it shouldn’t surprise me too much since it is a Christmas story. I believe it’s my first ever Christmas/Yule story, and if things continue a pace the story is shaping up to be safe for all ages. So many of you have asked for more stories of mine that can be safely shared with younger readers that apparently my subconscious has been working on it. We’ll see if I can actual behave myself for pages, though honestly the beginnings of stories are fragile things and just because you start a story is no guarantee that you will finish it. I think every writer has more beginnings than complete works, it’s the nature of ideas to come on strong, but not necessarily have staying power. This one feels promising, because the idea is fresh and exciting having just come to life this morning. (I don’t count a few lines of an idea, they can wait a decade to become a story, or never be more than an idea.)

After I’d written as far I could see in the new story I wrote on Affliction. I had to drop back and add a bridge chapter which is exactly what it sounds like it is, a chapter that bridges from the action at the end of one chapter and the action at the beginning of another. Sometimes in my eagerness to get to a scene I get ahead of explanation needed, or even character introductions so that you get people talking that are brand new with no background at all, or characters that new readers wouldn’t know just dropped in, so you have to back up and explain a little. The two brand new characters that I’d introduced have been in my mind so long that I just forgot that they’ve never actually made it on stage before. I’ve had that happen a time, or two, usually with minor characters, or minor major characters, that I keep putting in the series and they keep getting cut before the book goes to publication. We’ll see if the characters make it to the final round this book.

Breakfast pancakes, bacon, and cinnamon rolls thanks to Chica and her partner. Trinity had joined us by then with her present booty from her father’s side of things. Jon had found one more present for her, “A Muppet Christmas Carol,” her favorite holiday movie which somehow we had on video, but not on DVD, since we no longer have a VCR that was a problem. Jon braved the mall yesterday so we could watch her favorite movie together this morning. We’ve already watched two of our favorite movies leading up to Christmas; Red, and Die Hard. Ho, ho, ho, now I have a machine gun! *laughs*

Chica and her partner are about to be out for family obligations, but Trinity, Jon, and I are getting to do what we most want today.Trinity has chosen to play her new SIMS game on computer. Jon wants to read and play video games. We’re taking turns choosing favorite holiday music to be our background noise. Currently listening to Excelsis – A Dark Noel a wonderful Goth Christmas album. It’s the first album Jon recommended to me that I went out and purchased. 🙂 This was my pick. We started with the Clancy Brothers Christmas Album which is one of Jon’s other favorites. He’s always had one of the most eclectic music tastes of anyone I’ve ever met.

Oh, I almost forgot my choice for the day is to write and read. I admit that I may overindulge on sweets for a change. I also reserve the right to do treadmill depending on how the writing goes, if the muse and I are making pages I’ll likely just write.

Once Chica and her partner return we may go back to choosing another favorite Christmas movie to watch, but welcome to the holiday as celebrated by a happy bunch of introverts. I hope you are able to do what you most want to do this day. Bright blessings between my family and yours and a very Happy Yule and a very Merry Christmas to all!

Happy Winter Solstice and no, the World Did Not End!

First, Happy non-apocalypse! It is already past dawn in Australia, New Zealand, China, India, Madagascar, and . . . the sun will rise all over the world just as it’s supposed to and we will all go to work or school, or sleep in if we’re off work and school for the holidays. I’m sorry if anyone out there didn’t do their homework, write that critical report, finish that work assignment, or pay those bills believing that the world was really ending so why do all that boring stuff. The world did not end, so you are screwed. *hugs* Better luck next time.

I am now going to quote my favorite bit of dialogue from the television show, “Buffy, the Vampire Slayer” – “Before I met you I didn’t need to know the plural of apocalypse.”

Happy Winter Solstice, everyone! The light is reborn today, and the darkness is less. From this day forward the light wins a little bit more each day. That is the message of this time of year, that there is hope and life and warmth, and no matter how dark or cold the night that the light will return and life will continue.

Bright Blessings!

Grief for Christmas

I was remembering a Christmas long ago, when I was five. I’d gotten a child’s record player and a kid’s record as a gift from my mother, or Santa, I no longer remember which, but it had two songs on it, just two. One side was, “All I want for Christmas is my Two Front Teeth,” and the other side was, “Silent Night.” My mother had turned out all the lights in our small living room except the tree. It shone out in the dark in multi-color splendor. I remember the red bulbs most, I don’t remember if the tree had more red, or if it was simply the color that stood out to me. “Silent Night” was playing on my little record player and my mother and I were singing. I don’t remember my mother’s voice anymore, I do not know if she was a soprano, or an alto, though somewhere is a recording she made when she was a teenager of a country song she recorded on one of those places where you could pay to record yourself, long before the internet and YouTube made it so easy. I remember her voice as a teenager and it seemed lower than mine, so maybe an alto? It’s funny that I can’t bring the sound of her voice to mind, but I remember sitting in her lap, on the floor, looking up at the tree, and singing with her. I sang “Silent Night” with her in my childish soprano, I would grow up to have a pretty good vocal range from high tenor to medium high soprano, but at five I couldn’t hit the high notes. I don’t think she tried, so we sang it lower than the record, but we sang it, in the dark, with the colored lights, and her arms around me. I was so small, I fit in her lap with room to spare. She seemed tall to me then, but I know she was my height, or shorter. I’m not sure anymore, if she was 5′ 3″ like me, or 5’4″, or even 5′ 2″. I just don’t remember. I remember being small enough to fit in her lap, to be held, to feel safe, and to sing.

I am more than a decade older than my mother was when she died. By that next Christmas she would be gone, dead in August of that year. She died in a car crash, suddenly, no warning at the age of twenty-nine. Gods, twenty-nine, she never even made thirty. My next birthday I will be two decades older than she was when she died. People ask me what kind of person my mother was, but I can’t answer that question. I was six, and that means I didn’t know her as a person. She was my mother, mommy, I never even grew old enough to say, mom. I thought twenty years was enough time to get over this loss, but today I realized that I’m still angry about it. I’m still angry that I lost her. I’m still angry that she died so young. I’m still angry that she died so unhappy, because that I do remember. I have few memories of her smiling, or happy. She hated her job, but worked to support me and my grandmother. She had hopes of better things, different things, but they all vanished in the summer heat with one stop sign that another woman didn’t obey.

Does this kind of grief ever truly heal? I still dislike hearing “Silent Night”, though it took me years to remember why, and more years to acknowledge that I had the right to the sadness that came with that beautiful carol. It’s a great a song, and I had to sing it for years in choir. I never understood why it bothered me. Some day I hope to be able to raise my voice in song, and sing, “Silent Night” with all my heart, and get those high notes that I can do now, but you can’t catch the high notes when you’re crying, and I can’t hear the song without tearing up, so the highs will have to wait, until I finish working the lows.