My daughter and I walked yesterday. She brought a sand pail even thoughh it was about twenty degrees. It was decorated to look like Rudolph and a gift from her dear friend given last Christmas. She was collecting pine cones and leaves and things that reminded her of the seasons. We were delivering a few Christmas cards and an ornament to a neighbor. I don’t know “M” all that well in the sense that we don’t spend time together but very well in the way I look forward to walking and talking with her once a week.
I like the way she thinks and is and feel at ease being myself with her. She’s a mother and a grandmother and a teacher and an activist and an artist. I wanted to leave her an ornament because I thought she’s appreciate it. It’s not traditional. It’s all brown and filled with real sea glass. The slivers of glass are tiny and from our own beach. I didn’t think she’d mind the lack of pink or blue or pastel colors. I knew she’d like knowing it came from our very own neighborhood beach – the one we sometimes walk on.
My daughter and I left the box with a note, “Fragile and local” and then walked some more. The air starting to hold snow flakes, tiny ones so small you had to squint to make sure it was really snowing. At home, we mixed water and lemon juice with powdered sugar for “sweet glue” to hold together the gingerbread house. By the time we were done decorating the snow was really falling. “It’s snowing,” she screamed and ran to each window to get a new view. “This is the best day of my life,” she said.
Today, I was tired, feeling a little closed in by the snow even though we have been fortunate to keep our power and I have family who have been without for about a week. I was disappointed in the plans that fell through and the difficulty navigating the roads safely, wondering if the plans for tomorrow and maybe even the next day would shift. I was looking at my tiny cottage, filled with what doesn’t feel like Christmas cheer today but clutter, unable to find enough mittens to change in and out of fast enough to keep this cutting wind at bay.
The fresh air felt good and I was eager to be outside. We shoveed our driveway and porch, and then my husband cleared our neighbors across the street, the friend neighbor with the bad asthma that is made worse by shoveling and cold air.
I asked another neighbor, the one my daughter calls Nana C f I could help her but she said she didn’t need it. Later, she called to thank me for the offer of help and wanted to know if we wanted corn chowder and a visit for dinner. “Yes,” I said. The neighbor we shoveled for left a message, “I left something on your door,” and it was a loaf of fresh baked bread and soup.” I called my other neighbor and said, “I’ll bring fresh bread.”
The picture at the top of this blog is from my neighbor. She loved the ornament, hung it in her window, took a picture and sent it back to me. We touch each others lives in ways we don’t know. We eat each others soup, share bread, lift snow, shovel out a path so it easier to travel. We open our homes and we leave parts of ourselves at the doors of others or hanging in windows. We are enriched by the love and the ingredients and the sharing. It wasgood to get out tonight, to be out of the house without having to drive, to feel the cold air and know the warmth was foosteps away.
I noticed my neighbor’s house and driveway, the one who is gone now and I get cranky when I’m sad. But life is short. That’s the most important part of grief, remembering that life is short. I still can’t quite believe she doesn’t live in that house anymore, that I won’t see her checking her mail, getting her garbage barrels or walking to and from her car. We are in each others lives and we all live our own individual lives, having no idea what goes on behind the windows and in the homes we do not see, or behind the faces that do not show what is in the heart. But we care. We do care about each other. I miss her. She’s not been around for a while now so her absence feels more real.
I am grateful for the full circle and connectedness our family has in this little community neighborhood. I do miss my family of origin at times, and wish they were part of the daily flow of bread and card sharing, of walkie talkies and last-minute meals. But I’m grateful for this neighborhood, for the solid ground beneath the snow, the place we’ve called home for almost a decade.
Really good writing. Thanks.
No, THANK YOU!!!!!!!!!!!!