The road to my heart

I almost didn't pull the boxes off the shelf this year and take out this exquisite wax angel or hilarious blue feathered bird. The angel was a gift from my mother-in-law, a woman who took me under her wing and believed in me when I was lost and broken. I think of her every year I place it, with love, on a tree.

This year, I had settled in Eeyore-land and was moping. I was sure there was no way I was going to hunt down a tree small enough to fit in my Miata, light enough for me to haul in and set up. Too much trouble. Why bother?
But one bright morning after days of rain, I went out to run chores, and my mind said, "Wouldn't it be a nice day to look at Christmas trees, to smell that heady scent and just see--not buy, of course--if they have any small ones."

And there I was. Breathing deep, sticking my face wantonly into the branches of dozens of trees, falling in love.

I saw one about my height--a tad above 5'2"--and told the tree elf that I would take it if he could wedge it in the front seat of a Miata. They wrapped it up tight and, oh my, it fit. My tree and I drove home, very chummy.

And then the forest came to live with me. At least for a couple of weeks. And I took down the boxes full of memories, loving and savoring the story of each ornament I placed on the branches.

Because that's what Christmas is to me, remembering the love and joy we have experienced and the people with whom we shared that.

This being the year of my sea novel, I was elated to find this wild and wacky fish. Nearby, I hung an enameled sea horse and a gorgeous white shell. I've added several of the shells I found in November while the novel was tumbling from my head to the page.

So the tree cradles my current dreams, too.

Here are dough ornaments made years ago when my daughter was small. She made the adorable Santa on the left, and, for years, didn't want me to hang it because it didn't look like the ones I made. But now she sees the delight in a child's art, and I can remember my lovely, amazing daughter every time I snug it on a tree.

This cherub angel I purchased in Notre Dame in Paris. Every year I get to recall that wonderful trip when I uncover it again. There are so many more ornaments, given by friends, found in back streets of New Orleans, made by hand--each speaks to me.

While decorating, I let music lift my spirit. I listened to the great Christmas music CD I got from Tess Hilmo and another one an old friend recorded of himself singing holiday songs while strumming a ukulele. Glen McGuire is an Irish-Pawnee poet who moved back to Oklahoma years ago, but when I put on his CD, I remember him with great fondness. I interviewed him when I was a reporter and he was a teacher at a BIA school. He had written a chapbook of poetry (Spider Spins Between Two Worlds), and I remember him tapping his hand in syncopation as he recited a poem about jazz musicians.
On the CD is also a lovely, haunting poem he wrote and set to music. It tells, in a way, what I love about a holiday that brings back to memory the people who have made my life special. I'm sorry if I misquote or only get the gist of some lines, because I scribbled it down from the recording. Forgive me if I messed up anything, Glen:

Had a chance to go to London once,

Stayed in Kansas and held your hand.

Had a chance to go to Paris once,

Stayed in Laramie and kissed your hand.

Had a chance to go to Athens once,

Stayed in Santa Fe and touched your lips.

Haven't traveled far, oh Lord, in this world,

But a long road to the city of my heart.

Once again forgive me, Glen, wherever you are, if I got any words wrong. It's hard to take them down from a recording, but they touched me and I want to say that is what this holiday means to me--the journey to the city of my heart and all the wonderful people I've met along the way.

Happy holidays, everyone, no matter how you celebrate, no matter what your beliefs, I hope this time of year warms your heart.