It has snowed here on Whidbey Island where I live. Snow, and particularly the sustained cold temperatures that keeps the snow on the ground and in the trees, is a rare occurrence here at 70 feet above sea level in the Puget Sound area around Seattle, WA. Yesterday there were essential errands as the weather approached. Today we are not going anywhere we couldn’t walk. We work half-heartedly at the computers, then celebrate by taking the dogs down to the beach to chase gulls. We tend a straggling hummingbird at the feeder (which means bringing the sugar water in at night, and getting up pre-dawn to set it out again for that first desperate feed of the morning). It feels good to be “saving a life”–even one tiny hummingbird’s– in this northern cycle of shortest days/longest nights: but the life I’m really about to save in the heart of winter is my own.

It’s been an strenuous and rewarding year of PeerSpirit work and travel and interaction with so many wonderful people. There have been conference speeches, and small seminars, and uncountable interactions by face, phone, and internet. And now, all my social energy is spent.  I need to be that hummingbird for awhile: to slow down my heart-rate and spend nights curled on a branch somewhere out of the wind, and wake up in the morning with nothing to do but get to that first cuppa tea.

And this is exactly the holiday/holy day gift my partner and I give each other: two weeks of retreat, rest, reading, wandering, letting go of the never-ending-list of things to do. We’ve been doing this for years, ever since her children got on the plane to visit their father at Christmas…and after they were grown, we discovered it’s the only time the business really lets us stop. So, we do.

The Holy Nights, from Winter Solstice to Epiphany, are a magical time to reflect at the hearth. I turn off the wi-fi in my laptop, write bounce-back messages for the email programs, dictate “we are closed… we are resting…” voicemail messages for the business and private phone lines. And then it’s up to me to have the discipline to truly turn aside from distraction and business and commitments and projects in progress and BE WITH… myself, my story, my life, my spirituality, my sense of mystery and ceremony. Inside, and outside–to follow intuition and instinct rather than obligation and task. Shhhhhhhh. Shhhhhhhhhh. The song of snow, the whisper of waves.

We spend long hours sitting by the fire, enjoying the Christmas tree, writing in my journal, reading novels. We walk in the woods and on the beach and don’t care when we get home. We develop little ceremonies within the days that rise spontaneously out of slowing down and noticing more. I try out new recipes and we linger at the table in long conversation.

Our declared retreat while others are plunging forward with holiday busyness has become a kind of local legend.  People smile and hug us at the grocery store in support. They tell us about a party or event with a friendly, “…You’d be invited, of course, but we know you won’t come… because you are holding that other space for us, that quiet. Thank you.”

Every year is a mystery: what will show up, how we’ll respond, how successful we will each be at the art of stopping. This is my last blog entry for 2008–I’ll be back on January 6th, Epiphany, the day of the arrival of the Wise Men and I’ll share whatever learning has come from this time. Whatever you celebrate at this time of year, may you have a few moments of utter calm, peace of mind, quieted heart, and deep, deep knowing who you are and how to proceed with the life you have chosen, and been chosen by.

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It’s the first of December as I write this–things are gearing up for the holidays in a very strange mixture of directives. The president who tried to order America after 9/11 to “get out there and shop,” is going out of office, the economy is in a shambles, people are nervous about money on many fronts, and we know the “yes we can!” energy of the new president is not a quick fix.

Here on Whidbey Island, local merchants are pleading for loyalty with slogans of “Shop the Rock!” and at the same time the island newspaper is stuffed with bargain ads designed to get folks on the ferry and headed into the mainland malls. I do shop the Rock, and I don’t shop it much… In the over-abundance of my family’s lives, there’s not much anyone needs from Auntie Christina. And now that the “children” of my extended family are all in their 20s and early 30s, it’s understood that I’m giving my holiday money to charities and causes that I care about–for myself, and for them.

And, since the shopping season is starting in earnest I want to retell the story of my mother’s creative giving at this time of year because it is so simple and so direct. She, too, decided not to keep sending gifts to the grandchildren. (It gets harder and harder for an 85+ year old woman to imagine what the college and post-college generation might actually like to receive!) She set aside her holiday giving budget divided into $20.00 bills deposited in plain white envelopes with this message typed on the front: “This gift comes to you totally without strings, to be used however it benefits you… and if someday you find yourself with more than enough, take this idea and pass it on.” 

For the month of December, my mother carries these envelopes around in her purse and looks for opportunities to give the money away. She sees a haggard looking mom and several children getting out of an old car at the grocery store and leaves an envelope on the windshield. She hugs a pensioner at church and slips the envelope in her coat pocket. She hands one to a cashier at the thrift store with instructions, “use this to pay for that person’s cart when they come up here…” By the end of December she has deposited $300 into her community in direct giving, in the truest spirit of the season.

This action is quintessential Connie: wanting to make a difference with whatever largesse she has, and wanting to keep it personal to have a bit of story to share with her grandchildren… and the confidence to know that her actions will become stories in the lives of others.

Merry Christmas, Mom, may the manger in your heart always be full.