It is nearing the end of winter vacation. I am grateful for the good weather. The boys are playing outside. Asher is “painting” the window with a paintbrush and what I hope is water. Lucas is bouncing on a pogo stick. It’s a ka-chuncka-sqeak sound, over and over. Neighbor kids are in the play house.

Later I peek out and see Lucas cracking ice in the birdbath. A wave of noise floods the backyard when they tumble through the gate, then trickles out again as they move to the street in front of the house.

Some construction or demolition is happening nearby. I can hear the drone of heavy machinery doing work. The soundtrack in the house is the drone of the dryer, which I believe is trying to die.

Now I hear the boys playing stick wars outside, dueling it out with found tree branches, with smaller sticks-as-daggers stabbed through belt loops. They can never have too many stick weapons. I worry about their constant war games. But I have long since learned that I can sooner stop the moon from fattening than I can stop their games. To me they are frighteningly fierce. The boys ignore my pleas to play nicely. I am frequently told to chill out. At the present moment, I am grateful that their bickering and battling is taking place outside our home and not in it. There have been far too many arguments these last few days. Alas, it’s almost dark now and they will come galumphing in the front door soon.

I have all manner of things I want to be doing. My mind is full of chattering thoughts. I sit here, trying to refocus on what I have to do, telling myself to just be. I cannot to all. The. Things. I can only do one thing at a time (plus keep the clothes washer and dryer going).

Back to the editing. I tell myself that I can have a reward when I reach the end of this chapter. I can check Facebook, or write a few words here. I have already rewarded myself several times today with breakfast (after some work), with a shower (after some work). That’s how I roll, how I work alone year after year and stay motivated. Some days—especially dull days—I even break out teeth brushing as a separate reward for slogging through. “Want oral hygiene? Finish this chapter!” Hear the whip crack?

So, in the back of my mind, while I edit fantasy wars for couch-ridden adventurers with thumbs, I am kinda planning out some goals for myself, for this blog, for my work. I had a little time today to lift my head and look up, while the boys were away with grandma. I put a few events on the calendar. It seems that on 1/3 I am able to finally begin my new year.

Well, that’s where I am. Here.

New Year’s Eve was delightful. After a Chinese buffet dinner out last night, we enjoyed a lovely NYE celebration with friends. We met new people and enjoyed ourselves immensely. My sweet Asher passed out on the host child’s bed at around 10 p.m., in the midst of a room full of playing, shouting children. Amazing! (There’s something extremely sensible about this boy.)

Today, we cleaned our home and have started the slow process of moving Christmas out of the house. We’ll take our time with that. We’re still enjoying having our tree up, shining cheerfully in our living room. We are still enjoying our Twelve Days of Christmas!

This evening we had a small, simple family ritual to ring in the New Year, and this is the real topic of this post. We made a wishing jar! We cut little pieces of paper and then wrote our wishes and hopes for the new year on them. We included personal goals and things we want for our whole family. We wished for good health, peace, safety, and tranquil minds. We hope for new opportunities and prosperity. We hope for more family vacations and fun with friends. Lucas is hoping to do well in the pentathlon that will be held later this spring. Ian’s planning on running a half-marathon and two-Two-TWO Tough Mudder events this year. Asher might learn to ride a bike without training wheels. Both of our boys will be getting new teachers at the end of this school year, so we’re wishing for good, creative, clever, wonderful new teachers for the fall. I hope for more book-writing and more oil painting. For some of our loved ones, we wished for a wedding; for peace for the living who have recently lost family; and for an acceptable end to a long-held dispute. In short, we want good living, good learning, and plenty of love!

We spoke about what we were writing on our papers, and discussed how we might achieve some of these goals. We feel that thinking about our goals and saying them aloud or writing them out gives us a better chance of achieving them. This is a way of making our dreams manifest; our ritual actions help to make our desires a reality. We can support each other.

We rolled our strips of paper containing our wishes around our pens and pencils to coil them. Then we placed them in our mason jar.

We could have stopped here, sealed up our jar, and been finished. But we wanted to finish the project in a beautiful way. We took turns pouring colored sand into our jar fill of paper wishes. We gently shook our jar side-to-side to get each colored layer to settle down. Asher and Lucas both got to pour in their favorite colors.

And here is our result: our completed 2013 wishing jar. I wish these photos were prettier, but it was evening and I think you can sill get the idea. We now have a rainbow jar full of our hopes and dreams for 2013. The sand layers obscure them and make them private, passers-by in our home cannot read them, which was a concern for our 10-year-old, who now has his own private life and thoughts. We wrote 2013 on the top of the jar. It will stand in our kitchen, or perhaps on a shelf in our home, where it can gently remind us of our goals for our family.

Making this wishing jar felt good. I’m full of optimism and hope for this year!

2012: The year that featured plenty of Big and Scary and Sad. I learned so much this year and I am grateful for all the opportunities and lessons it brought, although I often didn’t like learning them. I’ve watched us dig deep and come out older, wiser, and sadder but with a greater capacity to love.

Plenty of amazing and beautiful things happened, too. When I look through photos from the year, I see so much color, so much light, so much adventure, so much growth.

I asked my family what were the best parts of 2012 for them.

Lucas’s Favorities:
He got to ride the biggest roller coaster on the SC Boardwalk and do the Haunted House for the first time.
This Christmas—“What part?” I asked. “The Christmas part.” I think he means everything about Christmas.
The world didn’t end. He’s glad about that.

Ian’s Favorites:
He finished his second Tough Mudder at Diablo Grande in the California Central Valley.
Our family trip to Santa Cruz in September, when we visited the Monterey Bay Aquarium and the Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk with Ian’s brother Danny.
Both of our summer camping trips to Grover Hot Springs with our beloved Barbarians and DL Bliss State Park with our Waldorf school chums.

Asher’s Favorities:
His. Own. Legos. And playing Legos any chance he gets.
Being an “Older” in Kindergarten and all the great responsibility that entails.
Playing D&D with Daddy and Brother. Playing with Solstice dog.
“Writing books. Annoying my brother. Getting presents from Santa.”

My Favorities:
Watching Lucas play Thor in the spring fourth grade play and Hanuman in the Ramayana in the fall.
Painting, especially my landscape class and how challenging it was.
Writing e-books and publishing festival e-books with Eileen at Little Acorn Learning.
I am closer now to some friends than before and that feels wonderful.
Celebrating so many lovely holidays with my family. Creating joy and memories.
My birthday wine-tasting excursion with my friends.
Family Clay Camp with my kiddos in the summer.

Happy New Year! May you find new richness in the everyday, new opportunities, new friends, and new delights in 2013. May you find peace and laughter, forgiveness and love for self and others.

It was a beautiful glowing dawn on this Winter Solstice day, with a vivid slice of a rainbow in the west—a very nice way to end the solar year. I’m both grateful for all we enjoy—our blessings are truly innumerable—and hopeful that the new year will bring more love, more laughter, more art and play and leisure, and more light.

Dimmest and brightest month am I;
My short days end, my lengthening days begin;
What matters more or less sun in the sky,
When all is sun within?
—Christina Georgina Rossetti

Our sun does shine within, through all our trials both great and small. Each day we wake and pour our love and light into the world. We do our best.

I’m not one to dwell on signs, but I’ll happily take this one: a rainbow as a parting gift and a cleansing, cold rain to bring in the new solar year.

Good people all this happy tide,
Consider well and bear in mind,
All that strong love for us can do
When we remember our promise true.

Now love itself stands in this place
With glorious beauty and pleasant grace;
To welcome us with open heart
And raise up welcome in every hearth.

Whatever life on us bestows,
Love’s mantle round our shoulders goes
Remembering this day’s delight,
To bring us help and mercy bright.

When darkest winter draweth near,
The light is kindled without fear;
Love sparks at Midwinter so deep,
This blessed time in our hearts keep.

When coldest winter draweth near,
Turn we to joy and make good cheer;
Remembering our vows so strong,
We raise our voices in this song.

Drive darkest want and need away,
Remember we this happy day.
Call love to witness, everyone,
And dance beneath the winter sun.
—Caitlin Matthews

Today is full of preparations. I braved Costco for our holiday food shopping and left only when I couldn’t fit anything else in the cart. We had five guests over after school, a kind of unplanned end-of-term party. My boys are ready for a rest, which is not to say that they aren’t brimming with excitement about the holidays. They are just ready for some snuggling-in time, some extra time with each other and with Mom and Dad.

We are celebrating the Solstice tonight with a big pot of chili and a golden cornbread. We’ll have a fire in our fireplace and give lots of love to our little Solstice dog.

One year ago today, this golden fluffy creature bounded into my home with great excitement and settled in. It took me a while to accept that he was staying, but that was true only for me. Everyone else adopted him from the first moment. Now, I can honestly say, he has been a shining light of love and comfort among a whole lot of difficult stuff that happened in 2012. We’ve decided that today is Solstice’s “birthday.” Now we have even more to celebrate on the Winter Solstice!

Blessings of light and love to you on this first day of winter. May your hearts be full to overflowing, so that you may spread warmth, light, and cheer through all the dark days of winter.

Blessed be.

Our second week of Advent was full of plant goodness. We got our Christmas tree from a local lot—our schedules didn’t permit the usual trek up to the foothills to cut a tree at a tree farm. Rather than worry about that, we nabbed a gorgeous tree in about 10 minutes flat and had a whole afternoon to leisurely decorate it, while enjoying Christmas music, hot tea, and candy canes.

It’s truly a beautiful tree, even if this photo isn’t.

I love unpacking our ornaments. This year, both boys got into the spirit of hanging ornaments and they told some of the origin stories themselves.

With boughs from the tree lot and bay laurel from my tree, I made a fresh wreath for our door. I bought a wreath last year and had the presence of mind to save the wire frame, so making this was a breeze. It cost me $1.50 for the reindeer and the ribbon. We made the stars last year and I love them.

I had enough boughs leftover from the wreath project to make a whole garland for my mantel. It looks very much like last year’s mantel except for the real greenery. I adore the straw stars.

Ian and the kids put up lights on our house and I added ornaments to some trees by our front door. It’s all rather festive!

My garden currently features green tomato vines that I am gradually feeding to my chickens, growing cauliflower plants, and sugar snap pea shoots popping up in a pot. The tree out front is still full of golden stars. The heavenly bamboo is sporting gorgeous red bird berries.

I’m happy to have the Steiner practice of celebrating the four kingdoms during Advent to guide the schedule of some of our holiday traditions. It helps to have things spread out over the month instead of all at once, in an overwhelming tide of stuff-to-do. This week was indeed full of plants.

The truth is, I feel kind of stupid even writing about all of this because none of it matters in light of the tragic event in Connecticut. It has shaken me deeply—and I may be dwelling on it too much. What does it matter that my silly traditions go on, or happen on schedule? That we spend time beautifying our home and making it ready for the light and laughter and friendship and love that is our Christmas? It matters not at all compared to life and death and ultimate loss.

Or maybe it does matter.

Getting back to normal, participating in all the everyday acts of love and friendship, and celebrating life are the path to healing, I think. And it feels awkward and weird and yet what else is there to do? We hold our loved ones close, spend quality time, hug our friends, protect our children, and invest in love and beauty, happiness, grace, and gratitude.

I guess. It’s my strategy for now, anyway.

May we all find moments of happiness and peace in the coming weeks. May we find a way to celebrate and heal.

I am somehow both pan-religious and nonreligious, both Catholic and pagan. I don’t really know how all of that exists simultaneously in my heart and mind, but somehow it does. For a long time I thought that was an untenable state, and expected that sooner or later I would have to commit to being and believing one thing or another, and not all things and none all at once. But I’ve lived in this state for many years now, and truthfully it shows no sign of coming to some cataclysmic end. Somehow this all-encompassing, tolerant nonbelief system of mine works just fine.

Most of the time.

When terrible things happen, though, there’s no rulebook for me to turn to. All the various religious answers about death and dying, loss, and grief fall flat. The feel-better remarks and there-theres don’t work for me. All I know is that I have to feel my feelings all the way through them, for as long as I need to, until I release them (or until they release me—I’m not sure which it really is). I don’t know if that’s healthy or not healthy. It’s just how I am.

I found this poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay. I understand this.

I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground.
So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been time out of mind:
Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely. Crowned
With lilies and laurel they go; but I am not resigned.

Lovers and thinkers, into the earth with you.
Be one with the dull, the indiscriminate dust.
A fragment of what you felt, what you knew,
A formula, a phrase remains, but the best is lost.

The answers quick and keen, the honest look, the laughter, the love,
They are gone. They are gone to feed the roses. Elegant and curled
Is the blossom. Fragrant is the blossom. I know. But I do not approve.
More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the world.

Down, down into the darkness of the grave
Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;
Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.
I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.

—Edna St. Vincent Millay

We all have to navigate life’s injustices and sorrows in our own way. There is no script that fits all actors in this play. We have our rites and rituals, our traditions of marking difficult passages. They are useful and good for many. But they are not perfect. And no funeral or day of mourning or flag at half-mast brings an end to the grief. Grieving continues and passes through many stages. We are not resigned.

A long time ago I worked at a funeral home. I spent my workdays with grieving people and people whose job was to help grieving people. A co-worker, Barbara, who had lost her husband many years before, once said to me something I’ll never forget. “After the funeral, all the people go home. The funeral was closure for them. But the grieving goes on for the loved ones, the spouse, the parent. For them, the grief stays.”

Just as our happy moments, our loves, and our triumphs build together and become part of who we are, so do our sorrows knit themselves into our bones.

So how do we cope and what is normal? All of it. Normal is preparing for Christmas with tears falling down one’s cheeks. Normal is gathering with friends and loved ones, smiling and laughing even with a broken heart. Normal is putting one weary foot in front of the other, making breakfast, enforcing room-cleaning, and cuddling precious children to sleep even while you hear the imaginary wolves scratching at the door. All of this depth of feeling and contradiction can exist simultaneously, too. Life is mucky and confusing. It is never as neat as a greeting card.

We say our prayers—or not. We light our candles and weep and gather together. We look to our heroes, spiritual leaders, and poets. We make sandwiches and feed chickens and watch movies for relief. Our hearts break, and we gradually put them back together—with wise compassion and great waves of Love.

We are changed. And that is normal.

I am struggling to find words to express my horror at the tragic shooting at Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newtown, Connecticut. Yesterday was a wash; I mostly sat here and cried, or walked in circles in my home. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t work. I am too permeable.

Last night we went to our school’s Winter Concert, a celebration of light in the darkness. I didn’t want to go. I didn’t want to celebrate anything or anyone. I didn’t think I could handle watching all of our beautiful children performing their songs and dances—the menorah lighting by third grade, the lower school chorus, sixth grade sword dance, seventh and eight grade choir, high school orchestra, a h.s. percussion ensemble. There in the dark of the packed auditorium, listening to these amazing, shining, hopeful children, I let my tears flow.

Truly, normal is what we need. We must continue, yet continuing feels wrong.

We are not discussing this tragedy with our children, and I am grateful these events are far away. I fear Lucas and Asher will find out soon. If and when they do, we will do the best we can to explain the unexplainable. There are many resources online about how to talk with children about tragedy, but the truth is I don’t want to do it at all.

I am reading poetry and trying to take comfort in wise words—God or light or “look for the helpers.” It’s not working. And any words of comfort I can think of are sawdust in my mouth. It’s too soon for comfort.

Good morning! And happy Santa Lucia Day!

We ate a lovely breakfast of eggs and Lussekatter buns. Daddy told us about winter in Sweden and Santa Lucia Day—about how he used to walk to school in the dark and he wouldn’t see the sun until lunchtime, and then would have to walk home in the dark at 3 p.m.

The Lussekatter turned out beautifully this year. My recipe is on my post from last year. These simple celebrations are getting me ready for Solstice and Christmas, I think. There’s something exciting about baking at 10 p.m. And while I am in no way a “morning person,” I love early morning magic!

I made two star boy crowns yesterday afternoon for $2 each. They are … improvised. A wreath and a 6 foot length of very soft “florist wire,” both from the Dollar Store. I just bent the wire into three continuous stars and put a little wave in between them, then wrapped the ends around the back of the wreath and tucked them in. This design fit the small wreath perfectly.

I have everything I need to make pointy felt star boy hats like the ones Ian wore when he celebrated Santa Lucia Day at his university in Sweden in 1993, but I didn’t get the time to do it this year.

I think the crowns are cute, but my own stjärngossar (star boys) didn’t much want to wear them. Alas.

It rained last night, and there are shimmering jewels on the branches, sparkling in the weak winter sun.

Have a beautiful day!

We’ve had buckets of rain in the past week. Our jacuzzi has stopped working again, due to flooding. The chicken run is a soupy, smelly mess. The pretty leaves have largely fallen from the deciduous trees in the neighborhood, but my liquidambar is still full of golden stars.

The palette of my surroundings is fading. Bright oranges, golds, russets, and crimsons are vanishing, giving way to more muted tones. Browns and grays, straw, and dusty greens—punctuated by lurid, store-bought red and green for Christmas—are the colors of December in Northern California’s central valley. The transformation is gradual and a few flowers seem to have missed the memo. I’ve seen marguerites shouting “yellow!” at the top of their voices, and a few purple irises are confused enough to bloom even in the heavy rain.

A couple of weeks ago, we took the boys to a local amusement park called Funderland, which has been in operation in Land Park as long as I can remember. The day was perfectly glorious, the kind of day November hopes to achieve—with sparkling, flaming trees and crystalline skies.

The rides, horseback riding, and pretty slanting afternoon sunbeams inspired many shining smiles.

And plenty of autumn frolicking.

It was a wonderful day. Land Park had lots of finery to show off while we were there.

Thank you, November. Your brilliance is fortifying.

Yesterday was the feast of Saint Nicholas and we marked the holiday in our usual small ways. The boys polished their shoes and put them out near our door. We also left out some hay for the saint’s donkey to eat. (Lucas left a note for Nicholas, asking for oranges, a taser gun, and a katana; the kid can dream big!)

I updated our nature table a bit, with Saint Nicholas surrounded by some little children. Together we read Christine Natale’s Saint Nicholas stories. My favorites are the ones when Nicholas is a boy because he shows generosity in ways that children can—by sharing what he has, by cheering people and giving comfort to those who are sad, and by being kind and generous to those who are different, disadvantaged, or disabled.

In the morning, we all found some treats and treasures in our shoes. Nicholas must have come in the night! Lucas and Asher got oranges, fancy chocolates with honey caramel inside, a bag full of magnetic hematite stones (gold for Lucas and rainbow iridescent for Asher), and they each got a beautiful heart-shaped agate worry stone. (We parents also received worry stones, too, and I think we need them more than the boys do. They are delightful for hands to find in pockets.) Simple. Sweet. My kids think it’s out of this world to be allowed a chocolate first thing in the morning!

Saint Nicholas also visited all the children at school. He and Rupert brought oranges, cookies, and crystals to Asher’s Kindergarten class, and he brought chocolates and pretty stones to Lucas’s fifth-grade class. I wish I had a photo, but I wasn’t there.

My kids chose some toys they no longer want to keep and we are donating them to others. We have a pile of donations outside at our curb, just waiting for the United Cerebral Palsy donation van to come and pick them up. It always feels good to give away things that no longer serve us to those who need them more than we do.

I think Saint Nicholas must be pleased with us. I am.