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I am lucky to have Louise. She has been my friend since we met in sixth grade and discovered that there could be -- if the stars are right -- someone else who is just like you. Sure, I know that it is wonderful and challenging to encounter and to love people who are total mysteries to your mind and heart, but you can't beat having a friend like Louise
She is not a simple person, although her way of living is careful and orderly. She is utterly brilliant, but her way of being in the world is respectful, inquisitive, and admiring. Louise has a potter's gesture that reveals itself when she is making tea or making up the guest room. She knows just about all there is to know about Asian ceramics but is always on the prowl for new ideas and other ways of looking at things.
For her birthday, for the new year, and to mark our long and important friendship, Louise sent me a beautiful Vietnamese robe. She and I will wear these dragons on our spines, together, simultaneously, and forever.
It is interesting to me that these days the main actors in Christmas traditions are human or at least as human-like as angels and elves can be. Perhaps this anthromorphing has something to with the Age of Reason, the Industrial Age, or man's supposed mastery over the planet. Who knows? In contrast, old Scandinavian traditions designated a goat as the driving force of Christmas. This animal, the Julebukk, was the mythic descendent of Thor's companion. In rowdy Viking ceremonies, the divine and fearsome goat was portrayed by a man who would customarily die and be born again.
The early Nordic Christians raised the stakes and viewed the goat as a sort of welcome devil who would appear in times of wild celebration. The Church was not pleased, thank you very much, and forbade the Christmas Goat which, when not acting out, had turned to supervising Christmas preparations and giving gifts. Eventually the active role of the Julebukk faded, to be replaced by the Julenissen, the Christmas Troll.
You had to watch out for the Julenissen as well. If you did not provide it with a Christmas Eve bowl of rømmegrøt, a porridge made of sour cream, whole milk, wheat flour, butter and salt, it would retaliate by killing all your cattle. Norwegians take things very seriously.
When I spent a Christmas in Norway, we set a straw Julebukk next to the chimney to guard the rømmegrøt, and -- sure enough -- everything turned out fine. So tonight, as Christmas Evening comes to us, I wish you friendly visitations and much joy.
I love this evening. In Scandinavian traditions, December 23rd is Lille Julaften -- Little Christmas Eve. Taking note of this night spreads the pleasure of Christmas forward and intensifies anticipation. When I lived in Norway as a teenager, preparations for Christmas did not really begin until Lille Julaften. That was the day when people shopped for gifts and put up a tree which was decorated solely and purely with white lights, Norwegian flags, and small balls of white cotton snow.
Lille Julaften became part of my life as a young mother, wife, and artist in Cleveland as we threw a big party that drew together people from all parts of our lives -- neighbors, friends, family, work colleagues, and eventually friends of friends and friends of family. The preparations were daunting -- huge quantities of eggnog and strong punch, buckets of 1/2 inch round Swedish meatballs. I accomplished Herculean feats of lefse-making and fragile cookie cakes. And it was all wonderful as everyone I loved gathered together.
So tonight, even if you are far too busy and your list of tasks is still too long, even if the Christmas music that has played in your ears since Halloween has grown tedious, even if you are sad, even if you miss someone, perhaps there will be a moment of quiet joy and sweet anticipation of better times as Lille Julaften works its small magic.
I have used this loyal hip for a long time -- learning to walk, chasing my sister, climbing, dancing, running, skating, skiing, accelerating, and generally having a fine time. It is now time to give it a rest and get a substitute joint. How about something that looks like it was machined at Bayerische Motoren Werke AG, as sleek and expensive as a new car?
So off I will go on Pearl Harbor Day to have my hip replaced, interested in the whole process, eager to move again without discomfort & this annoying limp, and grateful.
When I last stopped by Shady Maple Farms for fresh, right-out-of-the-hen eggs, Ms. Linda asked if I cared for a blue egg. Who could resist that offer? The egg is the offspring of a Blue Hen, who was abandoned injured at the county fair by some really bad actor of a 4-H kid. Ms. Linda and her husband, the vet, named the chicken Lucky, for good reason, and took her back to Shady Maple for recuperation and poultry companionship.
The egg is not a brilliant, knock-your-socks-off blue but rather a sweet, light azure, and we are delaying cracking open such a lovely thing. When we do, it will be our lucky day.
When my ten-year-old granddaughter, Sterling Knight, visited for a week, we spent much of our time in my studio. She arrived with Fluffy, a cunning, lavender-plush, weasel-like toy pet who needed a house. As it turned out, Fluffy actually needed a contemporary, four-story condominium with a private elevator and garage for the red convertible Sterling would make for her/him.
Beyond the satisfaction of using odds & ends, materials, and saved objects for which I could not imagine any use but had kept anyway, the real delight was watching Sterling work. She is deft and understands how to put things together. She sees possibilities and has an intuitive sense of structure and proportion. What I really admired, however, was the way she did not self-edit. There was no "This looks all yukky and stupid." If a chair made of boxes, scrap leather, cotton balls, and brads was a little wonky, she accepted it and moved on to construct a big-screen television. The home was packed with imagination, clever ideas, originality, and fun.
Above all she worked with enthusiasm and self-confidence, making what she wanted to see, making what would give Fluffy pleasure. Any artist can learn a lesson from this young girl.
After my son, Ryan, died two months ago, I kept moving forward with work --- in disbelief, in sadness, but buoyed by the love that poured over me from all quarters of my life. It was possible to work slowly in the studio, and I was able to measure, cut, paste up, print, and generally accomplish things. There is a notion, translated roughly from the German, of "grief bacon," a slowness, a layering of emotion much like hibernation that comforts, nourishes, and protects those who have experienced loss. I had the grief bacon. Still do.
The action that brought me pleasure and peace was knitting, to no knitter's surprise, and I wanted to make something for Heidi, Ryan's young daughter. At Red Purl in downtown Niles, my choice was immediate, soft, and white: yarn that Amy had spun from local sheep.
Delicious between my fingers and heaven to my eyes, it invited another yarn to ride along -- something perfectly named Little Flowers. The bright bits strung along the fiber remind me of Tibetan prayer flags.
So I knit my heart and my healing, my love for Ryan and his life, for his children, for all children into this rhythm of white and pink and red and sparkle.
