Posted by Anne

Next to my bed sits a jumble of written words.  Some of them were written by me.  Most of them were not.  This ever-growing stack of volumes on my bedside table is where I keep notebooks, journals, and the 4 or so books I’m reading at any given time.  I love this untidy pile; I love going to sleep with books and words by my side.  But there’s a downside to this pile…I tend to forget what’s at the bottom.  But last weekend, I was reminded of my pile’s contents when I dusted said bedside table.  And this time, I decided to actually take the extra 30 seconds and remove all the items from the surface of the table, instead of lazily snaking my way around picture frames and tubes of chapstick with a cloth.

In my burst of cleanliness, I made a discovery.  Sitting at the bottom of my signature pile was a journal.  There are actually a few journals in my pile, but I’d forgotten I had this one.  I was eager to dive in, curious as to what I’d find in its messy pages.  You see, my journals aren’t really journals.  For as much as I like to write, I’ve never quite latched onto the concept of a diary.  So my journals tend to be highly random, and highly disorganized.  They’re more like receptacles for ideas, thoughts, and beginnings.  In my journals, you’ll find the typical descriptions of events and heartbreak, as well as random quotes I’ve picked up, song lyrics I’ve printed and stuck in-between pages, cards given to me by dear friends, rough character sketches for novels I haven’t written, and journal entries written on the pages of church bulletins and airline magazine pages that I’ve hastily torn out and thrown in between the blank pages.

But this journal I found…it was different.  It was orderly.  It had dates.  Sure, when I opened it, there was the usual cascade of loose paper and cards.  But there was a structure to the entries of this journal.  They began in January of 2000—winter of my sophomore year of college.  Looking now, I see two headings on each page…two little phrases.  The first is “In my prayers…”  For each entry, there is the name of someone I’d been thinking about, or worrying about.  The second heading reads “Grateful for…”  And there I recorded someone I felt particularly grateful for on the day I actually wrote in the journal.  Nice, huh?  Here’s a little sampling…

In My Prayers…
“My sister, as she waits to find out what she’ll be doing post-graduation.  I hope everything turns out as it should.”

Grateful For…
“My parents, and how they never get tired of hearing from me while I’m at school.  I value their friendship so much.”

Reading the entries now, I’m struck by how simple this action was, yet totally heartfelt.  It couldn’t have taken much time—10 minutes tops.  That’s why it saddens me to see how long this routine lasted.  16 entries.  That’s it.  The other pages remain blank.  I’m not shocked—but I’m curious as to why I couldn’t have held on longer. Needless to say, life got in the way of my daily reflection.

These days, I’m no better.  Often, I talk to the people I’m thinking about, or I might say a private prayer when I think of it.  And those thoughts and prayers don’t mean any less than they did when they were carefully recorded in my blue, linen-covered journal.  But sometimes I lose track.  I become preoccupied with myself, my blog, my life.  So looking back on that journal—I believe there was something really beautiful about giving my time (brief though it was) to do nothing but think of someone else, and write it down.  That time was dedicated—special—even if it lasted for a mere 16 days.

I wonder if I could move my little journal to the top of the pile for awhile, and see how long I can take time—just two little phrases and a little bit of time each day—to write something nobody else will read.  To dedicate my time to thoughts of someone else.

Posted by Elizabeth

I am on a plane back to Albuquerque today, left pondering the events of the past week of my Christmas in Mexico.  But the things that stand out to me aren’t events at all.  They are moments – simple moments, that have been forever etched into my mind.

One night we played poker with my mother-in-law, Cecilia’s, poker buddies, a group of women from all corners of the globe who come together to drink tequila, eat good food, and take one another for a few pesos every Thursday.  Cecilia’s friend, Pilar, told me, “Jueves son sagrados.”  Thursdays are sacred.  I had never played poker, nevertheless a game conducted in Spanish, and I was nervous.  Nervous to be out of my comfort zone.  Nervous to be out of control. But I soon learned the names of the different cards, how to pass, how to call, how to raise, and how to begin having fun. Regardless of barriers of age and language, we were soon a well-oiled machine in sync, collectively ooing when the right combination of cards was placed on the table, and sighing in disappointment when they weren’t.  My dad, who speaks very little Spanish, was soon raking in the chips and sharing telling glances with me to help my game along.  I squealed and clapped my hands when I won my first round, and when we settled our bets at the end of the night I came out money ahead, and wondered what I had been so nervous about in the first place.  Years from now, I’m not sure I’ll remember how many rounds I won, but I think I’ll remember a night where everyone had an equally good time.

A few nights later, Cecilia and I took over the kitchen to prepare classic American dishes for a very Mexican Christmas.  Cooking has never been an activity that we’ve shared, and we’d never spent so many hours in the kitchen together.  But we successfully bobbed and weaved our way through her tiny kitchen, finding ourselves clueless in the middle of making marshmallows, furiously spreading the quickly-cooling confection on a greasy cookie sheet, while strings of white sugar spun around us.  Halfway through our cooking extravaganza, when Maikael and my dad went out to run an errand, she paused and took out a bottle of Bailey’s from the pantry.  “You want some?” she asked.  I’d never had Bailey’s, but I found myself quickly accepting.  With the heavy, milky liquid swimming around the ice cubes, we silently clinked our glasses together and shared a quiet moment, pausing just for a moment in the eye of the storm.  Years from now, I’m not sure that I’ll remember what we made that night, but I think I’ll remember the sound the ice cubes made as they swirled around the glass.

Maikael and my dad, Senor Fogonero

On Christmas Eve we made our way over to Pilar’s house, where we were amongst the first guests to arrive.  Someone was trying – unsuccessfully – to get a fire started, and before he knew it, my dad was suckered into keeping the fire going all night.  He hopped up every so often to tend to the fire, poking gingerly at the simmering logs and politely declining the suggestions to use candles and canola oil to keep it going.  By the end of the night, he was officially known as Senor Fogonero, the man who shovels coal into a steam-powered locomotive.  Years from now, I’m not sure I’ll remember who was at that party, but I think I’ll remember that, for a brief moment in time, my dad was The King of the Fire.

Later that evening we made our way downstairs to Pilar’s driveway, where a Nativity scene draped in psychedelic flashing lights stood.  The party gathered in a semicircle around the manger, our coats gathered tightly around us, nimbly holding oversized candles.  Pilar’s granddaughters each held a side of a scarf, where baby Jesus was carefully placed between the two corners.  Then, they began gently rocking him as the group started singing Las Posadas. We didn’t know the words, but we peered at the lyrics over someone’s shoulder, humming along, the soft glow of the candlelight illuminating our faces.  Before he was placed in the manger, Pilar passed around the figurine of baby Jesus, and we each kissed him.  Years from now, I’m not sure I’ll remember the words to the song, but I think I’ll remember huddling in the cold and, for a fleeting moment, truly experiencing the spirit of the holidays.

Senora Claus

We went upstairs for dinner at 11 pm, a multicourse affair with a steaming terrine of potato leek soup, that famous salted cod dish, pork loin dusted with chile powder, pork loin baked with white wine and dried fruits, and a true buffet of desserts, from rum cake to German stolen.  We laughed and ate and talked, covering topics as diverse as bad jokes and the persistent drug problems that plague Mexico.  Just before dinner was served, Pilar’s granddaughter, Natalia, shimmied her way out of the bedroom in a Santa Claus sleeper.  “Senora Claus is here!” someone shouted, before Natalia ate a piece of grasshopper pie and promptly fell asleep on the couch, her red suit peeking out from underneath the blanket.  Years from now, I’m not sure I’ll remember everything we ate that night, but I think I’ll remember the feeling of being warmly brought into the fold as a foreigner on Christmas Eve.

Life is a series of moments.  And yet, these moments are alarmingly fleeting:  they are so easy to pass by that we often forget them before we even have a chance to remember.  It’s a bit like lucid dreaming, where we must train ourselves to memorize these moments while they’re happening, without trying so hard that we’re pulled out of the moment altogether.  This is a delicate balance, and our difficulty in achieving this balance might explain why we insist on treating life as a series of events, even when we know that it’s the moments that matter most:  the crash and bang of events is simply easier to inscribe on our memories than the whisper of moments.  But it’s those whispers that have the most to teach about better living a life in pencil: lessons about losing control, being quiet, having a small but special place in the world, shifting our focus away from “things,” and being made to feel a part of something.  Although the lessons are quiet, they resound louder than most events ever will.

What small, but special, moments will you hold near and dear to your heart from this holiday season?

Today we continue our Holiday Season Extravaganza.  Between now and December 25, we will share what it means to celebrate the holidays — Life in Pencil style.

Posted by Anne

Next year for Christmas, I was planning to ask Santa for some elves.  I think they’d be handy.  They could sing carols to keep me energized, and run all manner of unappealing holiday errands.  And if they’re anything like Will Ferrell in Elf, they’d pump me with sugar and make me laugh.  Actually, I think we all need elves—or at least one or two.  Because in case you haven’t noticed, the holidays can produce quite the work-load.  (At least if you celebrate them a certain way, which I do.)

I often feel this way come December 20^th-ish.  This is when my festive holiday spirit begins to wane, and I’m ready for the finish line of the marathon otherwise known as “December”.  I’m just ready to have Christmas. I’m ready for the quiet, the joy, and rockin’ around the Christmas tree, but it’s not here yet.  Instead there are grocery lists, unvacuumed floors, and unmade beds.  This is how I felt this past Saturday afternoon.  There I sat, on our living room floor, surrounded by packages and rolls of wrapping paper.  Generally speaking, I do like to wrap gifts.  But my back hurt, and my tea was cold.  And that’s when my highly relaxed husband—half-asleep on the sofa—asked me, “Isn’t it nice, every so often, to just be sedentary?”  I looked up at him (armed with scissors…and tape) and retorted with an acid, “I wouldn’t know.”

In that moment, I realized how easy it is, especially as a woman, to bear the holiday load.  Or to believe you’re shouldering all the festive burdens.  But in so many ways, I realize how much of this holiday cacophony I create myself.  In my desire to make things beautiful, I make things complicated.  It’s a choice, and it’s a holiday of my own doing.  I wouldn’t change it, but I’m surprised how quickly I forget the roles everyone else plays when I’m focused on my own martyrdom.

Doesn't she look helpful?

You see, I do have an elf.  And it’s the same husband who made that “isn’t lethargy wonderful?” proclamation less than two days ago.  He may not understand my need for a last-minute mission to acquire festive place settings for the holiday meal.  He may not be able to take credit for the decorations.  But he’s an elf.  He tackles the dishes, takes care of his own laundry, and does a nice job with the vacuum.  And perhaps most importantly, he’s the person that asked me to forego our usual weekend workout.  Instead, in the fading daylight of a hectic Saturday, he drove me to a small mountain on the outskirts of town, and hiked with me to the top.  He was an elf, and his gift to me was balance.  And in my flurry of red, gold, and green ribbon—I had taken his role for granted.

Whether or not you celebrate the holidays in the traditional sense, we all have elves.  Maybe it’s a spouse or partner who hangs lights, or does all the shopping.  Maybe it’s a spouse or partner who supports you through the decision to try a different way of celebrating the holidays.  Maybe it’s the sister or best friend who helps you bake cookies.  Maybe it’s the mother who walks you through hosting your first big holiday. The brother who makes you laugh during a lonely holiday season, or an awkward family gathering.

For every Santa there’s a Mrs. Claus.  For every Mrs. Claus there’s an elf.  Thanks to all my elves.  Who’s yours?

Today we continue our Holiday Season Extravaganza.  Between now and December 25, we will share what it means to celebrate the holidays — Life in Pencil style.

Posted by Anne

The book that launched an afternoon.

One of my favorite holiday decorations has always been…the book.  Each year when my Mom hauled out the usual decorations—candles, nutcrackers, etc—she also pulled her favorite seasonally appropriate books off the shelf.  During the holidays, A Christmas Carol in its leather-bound glory would sit in a place of honor on the coffee table, along with Twas the Night Before Christmas.  But there was one other book…a poem…that Mom set out to read.  It’s called A Cup of Christmas Tea, and my Mom just adored it.  It tells the story of a busy modern woman who must go visit an elderly friend (or was it a relative?) for a “cup of Christmas tea”…hence the title.  And despite the woman’s reluctance, it’s a wonderfully touching tea party.  She finds herself slowing down, and learning something new.  It’s a lovely poem, soaked in estrogen and filled with holiday cheer. 

Now, as I kid, I didn’t find this poem particularly thrilling.  Even though I wanted desperately to attend tea parties (and magically become English), I still preferred that other poem about St. Nick clattering around on someone’s rooftop.  But this old poem of my Mom’s must have rubbed off on me, because this year, in a moment of holiday inspiration, I asked a neighbor of mine over for a cup of tea to celebrate the holidays.  I wouldn’t exactly call her “elderly”, but she’s certainly not a peer, either.  She’s someone who often wants to chat, but in the break-neck speed of my weekly schedule, I rarely allow a word in edge-wise.  This was my chance to redeem myself…my Christmas gift to her.     

So this past Saturday, I gathered together my tea party…determined to make the whole affair decidedly cheerful and elegant.  As it turns out, my neighbor doesn’t like tea (or coffee).  Hmmm, not to worry.  I decided to make cookies and some kind of punch.  As it turns out, she doesn’t eat sugar.  Hmmm….my fantasy tea party was tanking by the minute.  I called my Mom—the expert at feeding and entertaining senior women, and asked her what to do.  “Well, hon, obviously you serve some savory snacks and wine or sparkling water.”  Oh, Mom.  Brilliant that woman.    

My holiday spread.

And so I did just that.  I laid my coffee table with the prettiest water I could find, and arranged cheese straws, crostini, and spreads.  I used platters and pitchers we received for our wedding—the stuff that people always think is too formal for everyday (but shouldn’t be). My guest arrived on time, bearing a gorgeous poinsettia and sugar-free cider.  We sipped the cider, and munched on the snacks.  We covered everything from marriage to travel to real estate.  She told me stories.  I told her stories.  I learned about the origins of the town I’ve called home for over a year now.  We talked, and kept talking…for somewhere in the neighborhood of a couple hours or more.

It was lovely because it was slow.  It was an afternoon “in pencil”.  And for all the chaos of the holidays, it felt so warm…so civilized…and even a little old-fashioned.  I had nowhere else to be, and nothing else to do.  I was present with her—enjoying the company of someone I otherwise never would have taken the time to appreciate.  And ultimately, I was glad I’d done something other than bake her banana bread, and stick it on her porch.  She loved my conversation a great deal more.  (And apparently doesn’t eat sugar).  So as it turns out, my Mom’s poem was spot-on.  I hope you all have the opportunity to take an “afternoon off” this holiday season, and find someone—young or old—with whom you can share a drink, and simply talk. 

Any holiday books that have ever inspired you?  Do you ever find a moment to slow down during the holidays?

Today we continue our Holiday Season Extravaganza.  Between now and December 25, we will share what it means to celebrate the holidays — Life in Pencil style.

Posted by Elizabeth

“This year, appreciation may be the best gift of all.”  Or at least that’s the case according to a new Hallmark commercial.

According to yesterday’s New York Times article, “Fewer Gifts and Frills Are Expected in a Rough Economy,” people are giving less this year, and the gifts they are giving are decidedly simpler, drawing on homemade goodies or gifts to be enjoyed at home, where we’re apparently spending more time than ever these days.  Some are forgoing gift-giving altogether, sending greeting cards instead.  While many are touting this “return to simplicity” as the new normal, most are dubious that, once the economic situation rebounds, this more conscious consumerism will quickly fall by the wayside.  And that is a shame, because, as the article states, “while all that cutting back is good for consumers’ bank accounts, many insist it is even better for their souls.”

As I’ve mentioned before, I’ve never been a big gift giver, and my reasons aren’t grounded in any sort of moral or financial reasoning.  Rather, the act of heaping on gifts doesn’t feed my soul.  I find that I – and the receiver – am generally happier with one well-selected gift, a gift that, I hope, is a reflection of that person.  Our mothers told us, “It’s the thought that counts.”  But we’ve all been in a situation where we’ve held a gift in our hands and thought, “This person doesn’t know me at all.  There was no thought or care put into this.”  I’m not concerned with whether a gift is homemade or store-bought, simple or extravagant – only that it be soulful, that it stirs something in me, no matter how small.

I’m not going to tell you a sob story about how I never had any cheery packages under the Christmas tree, or how I search the world over for the perfect gift whose every detail must be imbued with meaning, because none of those things would be true.  I will say, however, that opening gifts on Christmas morning was an exceedingly long-winded affair in my family.  Not because there were so many people (there were only three of us), or because there were mountains of gifts (I’d estimate our household was pretty average).  It was because my parents insisted that we pay attention to the process of gift opening, that we be conscious of what we were receiving.

We opened one gift at a time.  Before the paper was even torn, there was a great deal of speculation as to the contents of the package.  Boxes were tumbled in our hands, testing for weight, a sophisticated mental cross-check occurring between the physical specimen and the gift list.  When the paper was touched – exuberant ripping for me, careful unfolding for my dad – and the box finally revealed, there was a great debate.  Do you think it’s what the box really says it is, or something else? Finally, the gift was unveiled.  That’s when the admiration began.  Oh wow, this is just what I wanted.  You remembered!  You know what I’m going to use this for? Once the gift had been given sufficient attention, two words were required before moving onto the next:  Thank you.

Of course, sometimes this process became a bit much.  My dad was notorious for reading the barcode on the packages, which caused me to roll my eyes and shriek, “Just open it, Dad!”  And every year my father picked up the smallest package under the tree, shook it lightly, held it to his forehead a la Johnny Carson’s The Great Karnak, and declared, “These must be the keys to my new motorboat.”  My dad made this same joke every year.  We all knew there would never be a motorboat – in fact, there would never be anything that extravagant under the Christmas tree, because that’s just not how gift-giving went in our family.  As an adult, I am grateful to have been taught this lesson about gratitude and appreciation.  No matter who I receive a gift from, I find myself going through a truncated version of this process that was passed down to me from my parents.  I’ll never forget the first Christmas I spent with Maikael’s family, where the gifts were devoured with the ferocity of a whirling dervish, the fun over in a matter of minutes.  The next year, I insisted we take turns.

For the first time, I made the vast majority of my Christmas gifts this year.  I created my own festive gift baskets with items I canned from the fruits of my garden this past summer.  Some people received jewel-like jars of organic tomato sauce, nestled in curls of paper with a rustic clutch of spaghetti and a bottle of favored wine, a homey dinner for two.  (There is nothing more soulless, in my mind, than a pre-packaged gift basket, convenient but utterly lacking in charm and personality.)  Others received jars of green tomato-orange jam, a sweet-tart marmalade that my friend, Atarah, gave me the recipe to when I was up to my ears in green tomatoes this fall.  They are simple gifts, not at all extravagant, but I felt a stirring in my soul when I handed over the baskets to the people on my gift list.  And I hope they felt that, too.

Have you cut down your gift list this year?  Are the types of gifts you’re giving different than the past?  How does the opening of gifts go in your house?

Attention LiP Readers!  Inspired by Tuesday’s post, regular LiP Reader ABF suggested we make a collective donation of a goat to a humanitarian organization on behalf of the Life in Pencil Community.  I thought this was an excellent idea that is completely in the spirit of our mission to more fully embrace life, so I’m starting a “fund drive.”  Heifer International sells their goats for $120, and they list an individual share of a goat at $10.   Feel free to contribute part of a share, a share, or even two or three — whatever you’d like to give.  If you are interested, please contact Elizabeth at elizabeth@lifeinpencil.com or leave a comment below by Monday, December 14, and I will organize the logistics of making this donation possible.  Thank you, everyone!

Today we continue our Holiday Season Extravaganza.  Between now and December 25, we will share what it means to celebrate the holidays — Life in Pencil style.

Posted by Elizabeth

One Christmas morning, when I was a teenager, I crept downstairs to begin the revelry of gift-opening, ready to embrace the energy and excitement that a household of new things brings.  Freshly-brewed coffee, mixed with the lingering scent of Lark cigarettes and the yeasty smell of sweet rolls, filled the air; I knew my mom was up, too.  As I tiptoed into the kitchen I found her standing at the sink, holding a teacup in one hand and a dishrag in the other, her cheap Sony radio softly humming, tears streaming down her cheeks.  She was not a person prone to emotion – I could count on one hand the number of times I’d seen her cry – which caused me to be worried and immediately ask, “What’s wrong?”  She turned to me and smiled wanly.  “Nothing,” she said.  “I’m just listening to this story on the radio.  It’s so beautiful, so sad.”

I took a seat at the kitchen table and listened to the end of The Christmas Story, John Henry Faulk’s short essay that NPR airs at least once a season.   It didn’t strike me as particularly beautiful or sad: a raggedy boy meets the author on a country lane and relays his story of an unexpected Christmas.  When the story was over, my mom snapped off the radio and we returned to our suburban Christmas, the story quickly forgotten.  At least for me.  Looking back, I suspect that story played at the corners of my mother’s mind all day, rewinding the details as we tore into shiny paper, turned boxes over and over in our hands, and cut into roast beef with real silver.

Years passed before I thought of the story again, my mom long gone when I happened to hear it aired one cold December day.  It had been so long that I only vaguely recalled the story, the mention of a simple orange and stripety candy gently shaking my memory awake.  The story had left little impression on me as a self-centered teenager (is there any other kind?), but as an adult I found myself wiping away tears with back of my palm, just as my mother had.  Here are the opening lines:

The day after Christmas a number of years ago, I was driving down a country road in Texas. And it was a bitter cold, cold morning. And walking ahead of me on the gravel road was a little bare-footed boy with non-descript ragged overalls and a makeshift sleeved sweater tied around his little ears. I stopped and picked him up. Looked like he was about 12 years old and his little feet were blue with the cold. He was carrying an orange.

And he got in and had the brightest blue eyes one ever saw. And he turned a bright smile on my face and says, “I’m-a going down the road about two miles to my cousins. I want to show him my orange old Santa Claus brought me.” But I wasn’t going to mention Christmas to him because I figured he came from a family — the kind that don’t have Christmas. But he brought it up himself. He said, “Did old Santa Claus come to see you, Mister?” And I said, “Yes. We had a real nice Christmas at our house and I hope you had the same.” He paused for a moment, looked at me. And then with all the sincerity in the world said, “Mister, we had the wonderfulest Christmas in the United States down to our place.

As it turns out, the story is both beautiful and sad.  Santa Claus arrives in the form of a social worker who delivers packages of everyday items that most of us would easily pass over, but are untold treasures to this impoverished rural community:  real coffee, exotic nuts (“not just peanuts”), fresh chickens, oranges.  The Christmas table, laden with their bounty, is fashioned from a board slung over two saw horses and dressed with a sheet.  In every detail of this story, Christmas is the unbridled expression of life’s simplest pleasures.  Despite being faced with abject poverty, the story sighs with gratitude.  Sam Jackson, the boy’s neighbor, says grace by uttering heavenward, “”Lord, I hope you having as nice a Christmas up there with your angels as we’re having down here because it sure is Christmastime down here. And I just wanted to say Merry Christmas to you, Lord.”  Is there anything more sad – and more beautiful – than saying “thanks” when life’s circumstances feel the furthest thing from something worthy of gratitude?

We all know that doing without helps us to appreciate what we have; it’s why the little boy in the story clutches his humble orange so fiercely.  But how do we invite gratitude into our lives when we are fortunate enough to not have to do without?   How do we dig down deep into that soul-place where thankfulness lives?  How do we truly access authentic appreciation?  I don’t have any easy answers, but I suspect it has something to do with having less, thereby allowing us to focus more intently on what little is left over; that’s when the orange takes on special meaning.  And that is the rub of living with less when we have so much at our disposal: it becomes a conscious choice, not one of necessity, and that’s not an easy choice to make.  But in a season when my best intentions to live simply are distracted by twinkly lights that hypnotize me into a retail coma, when the “you need these” nip furiously at my heels, when the things I can easily say “no” to the rest of the year suddenly feel like life’s greatest necessity, I am reminded of this:  the luxury of an orange, the decadence of stripety candy, and the pleasure of a fresh chicken.

I’ll never know why that story affected my mother so.  Perhaps it reminded her of her own raggedy roots, a grandmother who struggled out of poverty in rural Kentucky, a life from which she was far removed and yet so close.  Maybe she was feeling like I am:  so full and so empty, having so much and yet so little.  Or maybe it reminded her that life’s simple pleasures are right at our fingertips, perhaps even more so this time of year, if we amble down the right country lane.

If you want to reconnect with the beautiful simplicity of the season, I encourage you to listen to John Henry Faulk’s The Christmas Story here.  It’s only 10 minutes long.  But first, grab a box of Kleenex.

And if you’re looking for a laugh, my personal favorite seasonal NPR airing is David Sedaris’ Santaland Diaries, which you can listen to here.  If you’ve never heard Sedaris’ reading of his experience as a Macy’s Santaland Elf, the story that shot him to fame, you’ll need that box of Kleenex again, but this time for tears of laughter.

Today we continue our Holiday Season Extravaganza.  Between now and December 25, we will share what it means to celebrate the holidays — Life in Pencil style.

Posted by Elizabeth

I’ve always believed that, when it comes to their children, parents show gifts for particular age brackets.  While I think my mom was great with teenagers, my dad was a pro when it came to young kids.  Full of magic and make-believe, my dad was always our family’s designated storyteller and an enthusiastic participant in playing house (or, in my case, restaurant).  He was a willing actor with amazing range, a man who could expertly step into any role that was given to him with grace, good cheer, and all the right voices.  And he was at the top of his game come the holiday season.

When I was very young, my dad worked for an Alaskan-based shipping company, and he traveled often for business between Seattle and Anchorage.  As a four year-old, Alaska seemed the ends of the earth, an arctic wonderland where it never stopped snowing.  I genuinely believed that, once my dad stepped off the plane, he was ferried by sleigh to his business meetings, which took place, of course, in an igloo.  Because my dad was a master of make-believe, he kept up this guise by sending a steady stream of correspondence back home to confirm my suspicions.  Over the years I received many versions of the same oversized postcard, a panoramic scene of Santa’s Workshop in North Pole, Alaska, as if suspended in time.  The large alpine lodge, which looked as if it had been placed in the middle of a dense forest, was painted with bright Christmas scenes and perpetually cloaked in snow.  I was confident that the cathedrals of fir trees in the back were hiding the reindeer.

It was easy to believe that this world existed, and my dad provided the photographic proof.  In fact, my dad even saw Santa Claus.  In a letter dated October 5, 1982 (I was four), penned on fading stationery from the Captain Cook Hotel, my dad writes, “Guess who I saw yesterday?  That’s right – Santa Claus!  He showed me his magic telescope that he watches all his children through; all the way from the North Pole.  Santa told me that he would send you a picture of his house and write you a short note, too!”  And in fact, he did.  On that trip, my dad registered for a service wherein Santa’s Workshop sent me a handwritten letter once a year around the holidays.  The paper and matching envelope were emblazoned with dreamy vintage scenes of Santa Claus, swathed in icy shades of blue, and it is difficult to describe the excitement I felt when peering into my mailbox and seeing that envelope with postmark from North Pole, Alaska.

The next year we moved to a new house, and I was concerned that Santa Claus wouldn’t know that I had moved.  To make matters worse, a huge Christmas Eve storm knocked out the power, forcing us to spend the night at my grandparents’ house two towns over.  How would Santa Claus handle two changes of address in one year?  Even the Postal Service couldn’t handle that.  I left the fireplace doors open to ensure easy access, and my dad suggested that I alert him to my last-minute relocation by leaving him a note on the mantle.  But I was still fretting by the time we arrived at my grandparents’ house, the snow already enveloping us in huge mounds.  “I know,” said my dad, “I’ll give him a call and explain everything.”  He said this as if he and Santa were old pals who went way back; given the amount of time my dad spent in Alaska, it was completely plausible that my dad possessed a phone number that put him through direct to Santa’s Workshop.  My dad cradled the phone between his ear and shoulder, dialing an exceedingly long and complicated series of numbers.  An elf answered, of course, and my dad chitchatted with him for awhile – obviously, he didn’t want to appear rude – before being asked to be connected with the Man in the Big Red Suit.  “I’m on hold,” my dad mouthed to me, while he listened to what I can only imagine was the North Pole’s version of Christmas Muzak.  When Santa Claus finally got on the line, my dad proceeded to explain our complex circumstances in great detail, and by the time he hung up the phone, I was satisfied that Santa Claus knew exactly where I was that night.

It should come as no great surprise that I believed in Santa Claus longer than most children.  Between the unique circumstances of my dad’s frequent northbound travel, his commitment to maintaining this elaborate world he had created for me, and my own desire to want to believe in this magic, reality was impenetrable.  But when I was 12, my dad and I took a long-promised trip to Alaska together, just the two of us.  During those early days of his Alaska travel, when I often begged to accompany him and see Santa Claus for myself, he promised me that he’d take me when I turned 12.  At the time, 12 years old seemed impossible and remote, like the North Pole itself.  But true to his word, we traveled to Alaska that summer, and while I had long since stopped believing in Santa, I still very much believed in that workshop, a real place in the northern wilds where our everyday lives met wonder and mystery.

When my dad and I pulled up to the workshop in our rental car, I said, “This can’t be it.”  The North Pole was not the remote wilderness I had always imagined but a slightly shoddy town in the suburbs of Fairbanks.  It was summer, a surprisingly sultry time of year in Alaska, so there was no snow.  A monument of a candy cane-striped North Pole was swaddled in a cyclone fence.  And what the postcards never showed was that Santa’s Workshop was perched alongside a major freeway.  When we stepped inside the alpine lodge, the effect was that of an overgrown toy store, peddling the same things I could find inside any Toys R Us.  It dawned on me that, for all those years, my dad had done a much better job of creating a magical wonderland than really existed.  And I sort of wished I had never come, preferring to maintain the illusion that my dad had expertly crafted.  As much as I love truth and honesty, sometimes the worlds we create in our minds are better – and more important – than what will ever exist in real life.

Although my dad never planned it this way it was a fitting summer to visit, the time in my life when that delicate veil between childhood and adulthood was beginning to lift.  There were days when I wanted nothing more than to stay a little girl, and others where I tried to propel myself headlong into being a grown-up.  The magic was fading.  As adults, I think we long for this time of year because it represents our forgotten ability to suspend disbelief, a skill for which children are effortlessly adept and that most adults fail miserably at.  Through all of those years of letters and postcards and phone calls, I can see now that my dad was giving me the gift of wonder, allowing me to hold on, just a little bit longer, to the infinite possibilities that the world still held.  Until he couldn’t anymore.

How long did you believe in Santa Claus?  What made you stop believing?

Posted by Anne

I believe in the importance of shaking up tradition.  The routines and rituals of our youth don’t always match the logistics of adulthood.  I like to think Life in Pencil attends to this balance—of cherishing tradition, but allowing traditions to evolve and grow.  And that’s why I love Thanksgiving holidays with my family back in the Midwest.  Somehow, we’ve developed a very predictable Thanksgiving routine that still manages to be flexible and honors my adult relationship with my parents.  Traveling so far across the country, I love knowing what awaits me.  For example, I know that the following things will occur during (and surrounding) Thanksgiving:

1. I’ll wake up in my old bedroom (that now looks nothing like my old bedroom), and wander downstairs to find the coffee brewing—an extra large pot, because I’m in town.
2. My parents will try to read the paper in front of the living room fireplace, but I’ll keep interrupting them, and they won’t be able to read a thing.
3. I’ll make the pumpkin pie, using a new pie-crust recipe for the umpteenth time, and get irritated while rolling out the crust.
4. My aunt will awaken at some ungodly hour, just so she can arrive on Thanksgiving Day bearing a perfectly smoked (and insanely large) turkey.  It’s delectable, makes the best turkey sandwiches ever, and she knows it’s my favorite.
5. My Mom’s cranberry sauce—made days in advance—will be sitting in the fridge, ready to go with its perfect blend of tart and sweet.  I’m physically incapable of eating a cranberry without thinking of her.
6. After Thanksgiving, we’ll make our way to my parent’s farm, sit in front of the fire, and eat my Mom’s annual oyster pie accompanied by glasses of golden rich Chardonnay.
7. When we get back to town, we’ll make our way to the beloved and adorable outdoor shopping center near our home.  We’ll shop a little, talk a lot, and land at a bistro for a non-turkey dinner, and yes…a little more wine.

Happy Thanksgiving!

There’s comfort in knowing these traditions.  There’s peace and joy in knowing my “role”, and acting accordingly.  But something scares me.  These traditions will change.  Someday, this current phase of life will morph into a new one, and I’ll have to adjust.  There will be new traditions…new laughs around the dinner table, and new responsibilities.  At this moment, the thought of those changes both excites me and saddens me.  Not because I don’t want these changes…I do.  But there’s a certain anticipatory nostalgia that creeps in, knowing my holidays will always change, and always grow.  And there I go…always looking ahead.  Perhaps I should just, well…give thanks.  For right now.  (And no matter how life changes, I’m not giving up those oysters and wine.)

Posted by Elizabeth

Yesterday, as you were reading the Sunday newspaper, getting ready for church, or flipping blueberry pancakes, Nicolas Raap was setting off in a Toyota Land Cruiser to drive around the world.

Can you believe that sweet face was shipwrecked for a month?

When Maikael told me about Raap’s expedition, which will take him overland through 40 countries (he’ll ship his car at unavoidable water crossings), my first thought was, “Geez, I thought my ‘round-the-world trip was adventurous.”  Travel, like most things in life, is a matter of perspective.  During our eight months on the road, we could proudly puff out our chests and report some of the perilous situations we’d encountered:  outwitting scammers in Turkey, cruising around rough Lima neighborhoods in the dead of night, rodents dashing through Indian train cars, and almost-lost passports.  Then we’d meet travelers like Raap, who were hitchhiking through Africa or traversing the notorious Darien Gap, the narrow strip of land that connects Central and South America, a no-man’s land inhabited by drug traffickers and native tribes.  (We met a woman from France who, years earlier, had made the crossing by boat.  They were caught in a storm and shipwrecked on a tiny island, where she became the cook for the passengers and crew while their boat was repaired over the course of a month.  This is the stuff that movies are made of.)  These daredevil encounters were fascinating, but would usually leave us feeling like we weren’t taking enough risks – in travel or in life.

Maikael and I and our two little backpacks in Jordan

Stories like Raap’s leave me with a familiar itch under my skin, a nagging feeling that I want to hit the open road again.  I’d never attempt driving around the world – I value my sanity too much – but I miss the day-to-day excitement that this type of extended travel brings.  Although our lives were often complicated, filled with complex travel schedules and tenuous language barriers, things were also extremely simple.  Many times, a successful day meant having our basic needs met:  managing to negotiate three meals and procuring a roof over our head for the night.  There were many lessons to be learned about grace and gratitude.  We each shouldered two small backpacks, and by the end of the trip we had the feeling that we could have cut our load in half and been just fine.  We all know intellectually that we can do with less, but there is real power in actually experiencing doing with less.  I remember walking over the threshold of our house upon our return in March and being struck with how big our house was (it’s not).  I walked slowly through each room, arms outstretched, and picked up do-dads and knickknacks.  I couldn’t believe that it was all mine.  If only I could hold onto that sense of wonder and novelty, and find a way to reclaim it anew each day, perhaps I’d want for a lot less.

I realize I’m not really longing for another extended trip, but to feel those same feelings of awe and wonder in my everyday life, the sense of discovering the world afresh.  It’s what I imagine a baby must feel like every day of their little lives.   Raap and I certainly undertook different journeys.  I can’t imagine driving across Iran, Pakistan, or Angola.  But I feel a certain affinity to him, too.  He said, “I believe a trip like this is something many people dream of…is there a better investment than traveling around the world?”  I know not everyone feels this way:  it’s a tremendous sacrifice in time and money, and not everyone has the inclination to set off for an extended period.  There are many lessons to be learned right in our own backyard, but, for me, my trip allowed me to see the lessons with a whole new set of glasses.

Would you ever drive around the world?  What adventures (or nonadventures) pull at you?

Follow Nicolas Raap’s journey at Transworld Expedition