I woke up this morning to a sea of white outside my bedroom window, as the first real snow of the season arrived in my Denver neighborhood overnight. It was snow-quiet, punctuated by laughter of a dog walker and the scrape of a shovel, and of course, the cries of the geese flying over the small lake across the street in City Park. A perfect setting for the new year we all want--a clean slate after a year filled with so much sorrow--the losses, disappointments, climate stress or catastrophes that we've all suffered or witnessed.
I'm also spending the day somewhat unexpectedly with a house guest--my friend, Lauren, whose company is a joy, but the reason for her presence today and yesterday is not. She's an evacuee from Louisville in Boulder County where high winds and quick-moving flames destroyed hundreds of homes and businesses on Wednesday afternoon. So much devastation, and for those unable to return--most everyone in Louisville, as the evacuation order hasn't been lifted--there are more worries: possible pipe or water damage for those with gas heat, as the gas was turned off community wide until damage could be assessed. Lauren believes her house was spared, but won't know for sure until she returns, most likely on Sunday.
Like everyone, I wish for luck in the new year, and I still observe, from nostalgia rather than belief, the customs I've picked up in my long life: my mom's practice of trying to do things on the first day that she wanted to see mark the coming year: in my case, a calm mind, reading, listening to music, enjoying the company of friends. From my former partner, the late Paula Sperry who was born in Texas, the southern custom of making a pot of black-eyed peas with okra. It's now in the Instant Pot where I hope to correct a cooking error in step one of the process. No doubt mistakes will be part of 2022. May they all be easily corrected.
From Japan, where I lived for years, some familiar customs: a "hatsu" (first) shower--firsts being important on the first day of the year, a bowl of miso soup in lieu of the traditional ozoni, and the habit of checking out the New Year's concert from Vienna on Great Performances--not a Japanese custom really, but there are enough fans in Japan for NHK to broadcast it every year. I have moved aside the cow figurine on my seasonal decoration table and put the tiger in its place. On the lunar calendar 2022 is the year of the tiger, noted for strength and bravery, a good talisman to carry forward into this sure-to-be challenging year.
I've told a few friends during the holidays that dread was complicating the hope I usually feel at the start of a new year. Too many systems damaged or changed: the threats to democracy, the climate, our safety with so many guns and so much suffering continuing. In my best moments, I hope to invoke whatever tiger-bravery or strength I can muster for the challenges ahead.
Amid the sad memories of the old year are the gems--those moments that stay in memory though they didn't always feel important at the time: infusing myself with the beautiful, blue sky and clean air that returned from last summer's smoky skies cleared near my cabin on Linda Lane's land near Guffey. Lots of memory gems from last summer, where I spent a couple of weeks each month before I closed it for the season in September: chatting over coffee with Linda while watching the sun travel over 36-mile Mountain, walking Belle, Linda's border collie, along Ranger Station Road, indulging Hop, a 15-year-old Corgi, with treats upon entreaty. Hop may be living her last year now, but we thought that last year, and well, she's still here.
I'm remembering many moments with friends this past year, after we all got our vaccines and life in person started to reemerge. Many of them over food--at a restaurant, at home, mine or another's, and especially on holidays when a friend with a beautiful home filled with sunshine and art and beautiful table settings opened her heart and cupboard. Other moments laughing with laughter yoga friends in Cheesman Park, well into winter. There was food there too, always a picnic on the table just outside the Botanic Gardens.
And then there are those memory-gems on zoom--my hybrid life continuing--with friends who can't or don't wish to meet in person: meditation sessions with Eyes of Compassion Sangha, saying the morning or evening chant together; a birthday celebration with treasured family in Illinois as I turned 74 in February. Music moments came on zoom and in person this past year, and I expect that to continue in our hybrid world. In December, SAGE Singers gave a joint concert with Sine Nomine, another community choir, in the lighted stained glass church where Dr. King once preached. (The audience could opt for in-person or zoom.) I have switched from singer to support person with SAGE, enjoying this new role every bit as much as when I sang.
There were also memorial moments this past year, most recently for a neighbor who died this fall, a long-time resident of Montview Manor, where I still happily live: Kathy Tull, whose daughters provided a December wassail party where we shared food, stories about Kathy's life, and reminded ourselves of the rather special community we have here at "the manor". Later today I plan to toast whoever shows up for a potluck upstairs, then returning to the apartment. Lauren and I are in a similar mood: a few episodes of The Golden Girls if we can find them in honor of Betty White who died this week just weeks short of her 100th birthday, and then something funny or silly--moments that I hope to blend into this still-newborn but sure-to-be challenging year.
