......passing the baton

Yogis,
It’s a wrap. The remnants of leftovers have been eaten. The house is swept. Bed linens stripped, washed and folded. Rugs shaken out……check. Turkey platter packed away……check. The french bulldog is named best in show. Thanksgiving 2022 is now in the books.

Thanksgiving is a unique holiday. It has its own personality and long-standing traditions, yet as soon as the table has been cleared of cranberry sauce the baton is handed to Christmas. Not even a full twenty-four hours exists from that moment forward that doesn’t share its time with thoughts of mistletoe and holly.

Turkey? Pumpkins? Autumn colors? They all quickly begin to look faded and out of place while red and green lights with garland are wrapped around the downtown light posts. Christmas tree lightings, carols and the frenzy of black Friday replace naps on the couch while watching football. Must I shower?

Some years it really gets on my nerves. Couldn’t we relish that warm feeling of family, good food and laziness for just another day or two? Is that an unreasonable request? But for some reason I am ok with it this year.

Maybe it’s the hope that Covid will not be one of our guests this year. Or that the sun has been so bright in the sky this past month. Perhaps it’s because there are four full weeks instead of three and change between holidays as Thanksgiving fell a bit early.

Whatever it is, on Friday after gathering with the whole gang once again to do left-overs we took a walk into town (Rehoboth) with Phoebe to see the Christmas tree. The streets felt filled with joy. There was a line for the world famous French fries as Santa’s little house on the boardwalk was awaiting his arrival.

A small lit Christmas tree in a front screened porch caught my eye and told me I should begin searching for the right one for our little house.

Temperatures dropped quickly as the sky darkened, but the orange light of Mars shone bright. As I looked around it was as if I was watching families walking out of Thanksgiving and into the pine scent of Christmas. I know it happens every year but this year I felt like I was in lock step with them. Ready for the baton to be handed. Like maybe I could even simplify the holiday season finally. Really? At least a little…….

Santa's house at sunrise 

Thanksgiving night is the launching pad for a whirlwind of a month, but I am ready. Good-bye pumpkin pie……and hello peppermint bark!

Grateful for it all,
SARAH

.....and grateful to all of you who read my Sunday notes

.....the impossible

Yogis,
There is a neighborhood in Washington DC called Adams Morgan. A culturally diverse area with a large Latino population and two main streets lined with restaurants, stores, bars and small businesses. This section of DC comprised a big chunk of my first sales territory with Xerox.

Earlier this month I began weekly tutoring for an adorable first grader. His school sits in the heart of Adams Morgan. As I have been driving around in search of those elusive parking spaces and walking past the old buildings, many memories are flooding in.

The year was 1983. Fresh out of college and 21 years old I completed training and was made a New Business Marketing Rep (a fancy name for door-to-door salesperson.) My job was to sell copiers and typewriters to the small businesses along these defined city streets.

Back then you were required to report to the office at 8 am sharp, makes some calls, do some paperwork and then head into your territory for the day. The car console filled to the brim with quarters for the meters and my briefcase in hand, I would knock on doors. In a suit. With stockings. And high heeled pumps.

Now for those of you who had to squeeze your feet into pumps daily, you will be able to relate. You are walking along, looking oh so professional, when suddenly your shoe stops and you walk right out of it. The skinny heel stuck in a grate or between the cobble stones. You hobble back to release it and hope the heel isn’t broken. And of course, you always had the clear nail polish in the car for that sudden run in your stockings that got longer and more unsightly with each step you took.

Six months later, add a pregnancy to the mix.

Now I am walking up and down the stairs of these rowhouse buildings, at times carrying a typewriter, with an increasingly protruding belly. Still in heels. And speaking of pantyhose…….I can still distinctly feel that sensation of the waist band suddenly beginning its descent, not stopping until it was beneath the rounded belly with the stockings hanging down between my legs. As I continued on with my sales pitch to the decision maker it felt like I was wearing a diaper. I didn’t miss a beat.

Three times I worked through my pregnancies, heading back a mere six weeks later as if there wasn’t a scrawny helpless infant at home who had only recently exited my body in dramatic fashion. The same one who had me up at 2 am that morning. The same one who had me in tears alone in my car.

Pumping in the public restrooms. Milk drawing a bull’s eye pattern on my blouse while in a meeting. The occasional smell of spit up on my wool suit from the morning feedings. Looking for a pay phone to check in with the babysitter.

I look back and think ‘how did I possibly do it?’.

My cousin is in the thick of it right now and recently posted this quote from Tina Fey.

“I think every working mom probably feels the same thing: You go through big chunks of time where you’re just thinking, ‘This is impossible - oh, this is impossible.’ And then you just keep going and keep going, and you sort of do the impossible.”

Yes. It was impossible, but yes we keep going. Because we have to. Because we are strong. Because the world desperately needs us women. This note is a nod to all of you out there. I see you.

Or the day I realized I was wearing two different color shoes,
SARAH

.....anticipation

Yogis,
It begins to come into focus about a week ahead. I start to imagine everyone walking through the front door. Seeing the wide smiles and hugs all around as we gather in the kitchen. Visualizing the lively mood during appetizers as we catch up on a year that now sits in our rear-view mirror. Imagining the amazing spread of lobster, tenderloin and potatoes in my mind’s eye and the ceremonial tossing of the Caesar salad. That warm feeling of being together to celebrate us for the 34^th…..or is it 35^th year.

Saturday was our annual Lobsterfest, where ten of us converge for five hours to eat, drink, talk, dance and love. Lots and lots of love. But it always begins with the anticipation.

This year as I visualized adorning the table with small pumpkins, fall mums, fresh cut herbs and candles, I began to see something new. Twinkle lights lying down the center of the table. Online I go and $11 later I have a ten foot strand of small warm white globe lights which I weaved around the table toppers. They did not disappoint. In fact, I believe they will stay there through the dark of winter.

Two days ahead I sat in front of my Spotify to begin constructing a playlist that would get even the most reluctant dancers up out of their chairs. Seeing us all pushing in the dining chairs to clear our dance floor. Of course, the crowd favorites like Get Lucky and Blurred Lines went in, but I pictured some new energy being brought in. Songs like I Love It and Sweetest Pie. They did not disappoint. After one particularly exhilarating dance when the song ended, we all spontaneously broke into applause. Applause for us and for our joy.

Anticipating the laughter. Imagining myself bent over or even snorting from those stories of our younger years told one more time. The way we all know each other so well that our individual quirks and inside jokes never disappoint. Laughter like we have is absolutely one of the best medicines for whatever ails you.

Finally, the anticipation of late night where we feel we have eaten and moved enough and we can all settle together. Lights low. Music turned down. I can feel it.  It did not disappoint. We have two new chairs in the sitting nook of our great room where everyone was drawn to sit in a circle. Phoebe curled up in a ball getting her final pets. Reminiscing. Talk of young grandchildren and others on their way.

While I shop for flowers, I feel the anticipation. While cutting herbs. Washing the table linens. Putting chocolates in a bowl. Laying out the cheese platters. Lighting the candles. Each step filling me with the sights, smells and sensations of what is to come.

Thank goodness I have the anticipation for the several days leading up to Saturday because those five hours are gone in a blink of an eye. As the coats go back on and goodbyes are shared, I realize that no matter how high the bar is set in my vision, the event never disappoints.

I wake up Sunday morning a bit bleary eyed but bursting with gratefulness.

Still feeling the warmth that days ago I anticipated,
SARAH

.....acorns

Yogis,
Our small beach house sits surrounded by pine and oak trees. Big old trees that are great producers. As great producers they then also must be fantastic autumn droppers, and this was their weekend to let go. Acorns and pinecones falling at an incredible rate on the roof, driveway, gutters and everywhere in between. Like a rainstorm they clank on the metal roof next door and rumble as they roll, often having me glancing over my shoulder to see who is there. Twenty-four hours a day.

Last night I lay in bed with the window open. Plop…plop…plop on the roof above my head reminding me of large teardrops. As if the sky and trees were finally allowing themselves this time to grieve as life begins its slow down. Fall is the season for grief.

Grief is hard. We want to push the inevitable off. I’ll get to it. But do we really want to wait for springtime, with its brightening days and bursts of lifeforce to grieve? Or maybe summer while eating an ice cream cone on the boardwalk? No…… As the nights become longer and the leaves float downward, we too are meant to let go. If not in fall, when?

And isn’t that what grief is at its essence? A letting go? A pouring out.

Grief arrives in small and large packages. A loved one. Our youth. A relationship. The end of summer. The daily tragedies of life. A missed experience. The way something used to be……

We claim we dislike things that are shallow, yet when it is time for grief we high-tail it for the shallow end because grief holds tremendous depth. It scares us. It’s uncomfortable. Unknown. If I swim into the dark of grief, will I be able to make my way back.

But wouldn’t life without grief be missing its texture?

We grieve because we loved. Two sides of the same coin. They travel hand in hand and cannot be separated. And when grief arrives, she will be patient for a while for us to acknowledge her, but only for so long. She yearns to be processed. A step at a time. Fall offers us this doorway.

Fog. Leaves crunching under my shoes. The flock of blackbirds in the tree. A late yellow butterfly floats by.

Another acorn falls.

Feeling it all,
SARAH