Category: Holidays

I have a strange perfectionist tendency that says if I do something once and succeed with it, then it has to be done the next time and every single time after that, until the end of time. In this case, I’m talking about traditions, more specifically, Christmas traditions.  For starters, I’m a Virgo, and this is simply what Virgos do, but I’m also from a family that holds onto traditions,  close and tightly, and next to their hearts,  especially when it comes to Christmas.  At age 59, I know I’m in a tiny minority of people who can say that they have spent every Christmas of their life with their entire family.  Every.  Single.  One.  My parents, my siblings, my siblings’ spouses, my own kids, and now their significant others, all come together for a few days that hold the same kind of magic that it did when I was a small child.  We do Christmas well, and because of that, I’ve always been a tiny bit afraid to make any changes to the many traditions that have made their way through the generations.

There was a point a few years ago when I realized I was doing a whole lot of things simply because I had always done them, and while the end was accomplished, the process suffered as I trudged through tasks I didn’t really enjoy.  Baking, cutting out, and icing cookies was my first tradition to hit the dust, and lo and behold, Christmas was not ruined.  It almost pains me to admit it, but I do not enjoy baking, and whether it’s Christmas cookies or birthday cakes, I fail miserably at it, probably because I don’t enjoy it.  I will knit Christmas stockings with names and designs knitted right in and load up mantles with nature’s bounty until the cows come home, but I will leave the baking to someone else.  I’m throwing in the towel and the cookie sheets and am calling myself done.  And finally, I can say it’s OK.
Our family tradition of putting a handwritten poem on every one of our gifts that gives a hint of the contents inside   has made its way through 4 generations unscathed, as has our tradition of “pie presents,” which are small gifts placed on everyone’s plate for Christmas dinner.  Both traditions remain strong while evolving to suit an expanding, maturing audience.  The poems have become every comic in the family’s moment of fame when it’s read (which is everyone, by the way), and the pie gifts have transformed into a pre-Christmas Yankee swap, with a whole lot of trying to outdo the next guy taking place.  Both have survived the holiday cuts because they are something we all enjoy.  Baking for me, not so much.  Writing Christmas cards, which I sadly gave up a few years ago because of time constraints, has also been dropped and not picked up again… at least not yet.  And still,  Christmas was not ruined.

The traditions give us a sense of history and are carried on until they become cumbersome; then, hopefully, we have the presence of mind to let them go.  Poems that started with a couple of lines that my young children would scribble onto a sheet of paper have grown into witty works of art, many of which I’ve saved over the years.  Give up the cookies, the cards, and even the outdoor lights, if you will, but please, oh please, save the poems, my children.  You will be the carriers to the next generation.

While some traditions are held tight, and others are let go of, what really matters and what has become the biggest tradition of all isn’t wrapped up or baked or sent in the mail, but rather is the gift of a family coming together, once again,  for a few days of magic.  It’s the gift that is wrapped up in memories and continually given and received with open arms and hearts and topped with a handwritten poem that speaks of love and family and Christmas magic.  THIS is the tradition that I have no doubt will be carried safely in the hearts of the generations to come.
Wish all my family and friends a very Merry Christmas!

My field of gratitude stretched just a bit further than usual this Thanksgiving season, to the North African country of Morocco, specifically.  As much as I like to think that I’m helping to better someone’s life when volunteering,  if only a few moments at a time, the reality is that the people who I am supposedly helping, whether that means teaching English to or simply being attentive and loving to a child at the orphanage, give me far more than I could ever give them. The gift of gratitude is the gift I take away—the greatest gift of all.

There were so many reminders of gratitude during my stay in Rabat, but two in particular that I can’t seem to let go of.  The first one was during my trip to Fes.  I met a fascinating young man while on the train and had the opportunity to chat with him during the entire 3-hour journey.  He was 23, from Georgia, and was attending school in Rabat, working on his master’s degree in Middle Eastern politics.  He spoke several languages fluently but apologized for his poor French, which was hardly an apology to this barely bilingual person.   His stories were more like a history lesson to me, and I was amazed by his knowledge of American history, which put my own knowledge to shame.  One of his stories that particularly touched me was about his memories of 9/11.  He said he was in the 3rd grade, and he remembers watching the videos of the planes going into the towers and how afraid his parents were, even for their own safety.  I certainly could understand the fear, yet, half a world away,  I assumed they would feel more isolated and somewhat protected.  His response I will not soon forget.

“America was the last safe place in the world, and now it wasn’t.  The whole world was afraid.”
I’m thankful that David happened to claim the seat right across from me on the train that morning, even though my first thought was that he wouldn’t be someone who wanted to talk, since I tried to sleep.  His words and his reminder that the world is far bigger than our U.S. borders made a massive impact on me that I won’t soon forget.

The second reminder I got was something that Mohamed told us during one of our first lessons on Moroccan culture.  He told us to never lose sight of the gift we have, simply by the name of the country that is imprinted on our passports, as it puts us ahead of most of the world.  Our passports are worth far more than we realize.  It is so easy to forget this, especially during a time of such political turmoil in our country.  It’s a complex, time-consuming, and expensive process for a Moroccan to obtain a tourist visa for the United States, and the chances of being selected through the lottery system are slim.  I had a couple of women in my class who were perfecting their English in hopes of visiting children and grandchildren in the United States.  I was so sad when Mohamed told me that their chances of visiting the United States were very slim, yet they continued to plug away at their English lessons, their energy fueled by such a tiny thread of hope.

So underneath my table of abundance this year at Thanksgiving will be the faces from Morocco – a girl at the orphanage reaching her hand out to me through the bars of her crib, a young man on a train who opened my eyes to a reality a world away from mine and to the dark blue booklet that I guard with my life when I travel outside of my country’s borders that says, “United States of America.”

Yesterday, while finishing up my unpacking, I picked up one of my shirts, was drawn to its smell, and couldn’t figure out why it felt so familiar. Then it hit me—the orphanage.  I had gotten clean clothes from the laundry before I left Rabat, and they must use the same soap that they use to launder the children’s clothes at the orphanage.  Now that I know, I find myself burying my face into a memory to ensure that it won’t be lost.  I’m not quite ready to let go.   I know that as life goes on and memories start to fade a bit, a thread of connection to Morocco will remain and, no doubt,  will present itself to me when I become too complacent with what I have.  But for now, with my Moroccan memory still vibrant and with its scent still in my clothes, I will go deeper into my list of what I have to be thankful for this Thanksgiving.  The stories, the people, and a hand reaching out to me to communicate as she had no words, for starters…

To all my friends and family, I am thankful, over and over again,  to have you in my life.