“The mind is its own place, and in itself can make Heav’n of Hell, a Hell of Heav’n.” –Milton, Paradise Lost

Season’s Greetings Dear Ones!

The Solstice is TOMORROW!! Woo hoo! Those of us in the Northern hemisphere munching vitamin D3 tablets and clinging to OTT lamps will begin our return to sanity tomorrow. “Tomorrow…Tomorrow…I love you, Tomorrow…you’re only a day away…” chortles my inner orphan Annie. We’ve reached the outer limit of our orbit and begin the swing back tomorrow!

In my woodstove, staves of wood are bursting into flames reminiscent of the sunlight that once fed them. The logs are laid down in a series, like forks in courses for a good dinner. Fire ingredients need to be selected carefully and added in the right order. Two parallel logs of kiln dried oak go first as the foundation on the grate. I fill the gap between with kindling and scrunched up newspaper. Today’s paper dates from June of 2020 and the headlines are all about Covid lockdowns and toilet paper shortages. Across the oak and the wrinkles in Time goes a little hemlock, which burns hot and fast but is too sappy to use much of. (We don’t want to create a lot of creosote in the chimney!) Above that, goes a big ax-hewn slab of Maple from a downed tree on the farm, aged and dry but with some serious weight to it. These inches of hardwood, accumulated over years, will keep us warm until noon.

And now, with the flick of a single match, the air then paper, then wood ignite. I orbit the glow like a planet, warming my hands, with the little Jack Russell as a private moon circling my ankles. (He’s attempting to lead me off course, over to the shelf where his treats are stored.) I stare into the fire, Learning.

A big fire starts with a little spark that gets taken up by increasingly larger and more significant pieces. A huge piece of wood cannot reach ignition temperature without a lot of smaller combustion around it. Putting the right piece of wood on at the right time will cause it to ignite. Putting the wrong piece will cause the whole thing to extinguish. “I’m pretty sure Epictetus or one of the Stoics said the same thing about a piece of charcoal,” says Prudence, hasty to reassure me that I have not noticed anything new.

“Fires, like any kind of relationship, need AIR,” I tell her, wanting her to orbit elsewhere, perhaps over by the pizzelle station I have created at the other end of the kitchen. I have set up the iron and have been cranking out anywhere from 50 to 100 a day to distribute to friends, neighbors, colleagues, and helpers in the community. “You’re distributing quite a few to your bum, tum, and thighs too,” notes Prudence disdainfully.

“Hush!” I snap at her. “How will I be able to muster enough shame on January first to make some truly Stoic resolutions if I don’t run amok first? This is an important step towards my future glory.”

Though, secretly, I was horrified to learn yesterday from my father that one recipe batch makes approximately FIFTY pizzelles. “REALLY?” I asked. “I’m pretty sure I never get 50. That seems like an awful lot. Are you sure?”

“I counted them,” he said. At 85, he’s still upholding the family traditions passed down from his grandparents but he’s gotten all “America’s Test Kitchen-y” about it. He weighs things; he counts things; he measures precisely. He’s using a postal scale instead of a chipped tea cup or his bare hands to determine how much flour to add. He even uses a premeasured portion scoop, rather than two spoons, to apply the exact amount batter dead center in the twin bullseyes of the double iron.

I have been making these things every year for more than thirty years and had no idea that our family recipe was supposed to produce FIFTY pizzelles. This explains a lot.

“Don’t you eat the first two because the iron isn’t hot enough yet, then the second two because you need to make sure you haven’t forgotten any ingredients, then another two because you have adjusted the salt, then another two just to be sure, then another two because these ones turned out a little too dark because you got distracted, and then another two because you are now in the business of mindlessly consuming whatever comes off the press? That’s Tradition too, you know!” I am deeply committed to Family Traditions, though not necessarily Traditional Families. I like ANY kind of family.

With the woodstove at one end and the pizzelle iron at the other, my kitchen is warm and redolent with the smell of a big family Christmas. My “family” arrives Saturday. I can’t wait. I’ve had the table set for so long that now I need to wash the dust off the dishes. My children are coming and so is their dad and his partner (whom I adore!) and our beloved Hermit from Hermit Hollow and perhaps a few other guests yet to be determined.

People think I am crazy to invite a former spouse. To quote Scottish comedian Billy Connelly, they think he’d be about “as welcome as a fart in a spacesuit.” But I’m extremely glad to celebrate “Ex-Mas.” To me, it represents the triumph of a different kind of Commitment than the traditional “unto death doth us part” we signed up for originally. Now, instead of Death, we just wait for the Christmas pudding to settle before we say our tender farewells. In the ten years since we have separated, we have done an incredible amount of work to honor, respect, cherish, and admire each other in ways we did not when we were cosigning a single tax return. Despite the eviscerating heartbreak of divorce, our friendship, our dedication to our children and our own individual integrity has not just survived but thrived. We might not have worked much at the marriage but we’ve made up for that in creating a Good divorce.

It was not easy. Death of a marriage is like any other death. The loss of ideas, of dreams, of beliefs and assumptions is indescribably painful and must be accompanied by the requisite guilt, grief, and processing needed to endure, survive, and Mend. Loss cleans and changes us…sometimes for the Better.

When the court told me that we would alternate having our children for the holidays, I nodded politely but my inner pizzelle maker said “NO. This will NOT be. I shall have Christmas…EVERY year. I SHALL.”

And, with the exception of our first Christmas apart, I have.

Through my own pure selfishness and greed, I have done whatever it takes to cajole, to heal, to mend, to entice, and delight my family into being the family I always dreamed of having for the holidays. And, like any Good Old Fashioned Christmas Miracle, it’s worked! I learned that Time does not heal; healing heals. We all know that motto that “hurt people hurt people.” Well, the reverse is true too: Healed people heal people. Free people free people. Lit candles light other candles (and sometimes the draperies if you are not careful).

If your goal is Unconditional Love of yourself and others, then you need to remove the conditions you place on your love. [You can however (and MUST) put conditions, better known as boundaries, on their behavior! It goes without saying that YOU get to decide how much swinging from the chandelier and singing of sea shanties at four in the morning should be tolerated, even if you’re the one doing it. Every pool needs a lifeguard. Especially if pirates are nearby.] The problem with anyone who has problems is that [he/she] probably has not experienced enough Unconditional Love at a crucial point in [his/her] life.

Throwing endless amounts of Unconditional Love at people has its consequences—especially if one does it from a calm, grounded, well-boundaried place—the way one delights in setting a beloved herd of sheep loose in a pasture with strong fences. For those tempted to murder a current or former spouse, let me tell you—the best way to kill someone is with Kindness: The person you once hated ceases to “be” and you get to become the person of your dreams instead of expecting someone else to do that for you. Other bonuses include no bodies to hide, no blood stains to scrub, and significantly less jail time. (We Menders must avoid jail at all costs because they don’t allow you to knit in jail.)

And so it is. When certain customers come into my shop and tell me they are dreading Christmas without their daughter or son-in-law, having fractured time with children or grandchildren as a result of the trauma of divorce, I tell them my story. I tell them how my son returned from Scotland and that first Christmas without me and told me anxiously “Granddad hates you now.” I looked him in the eye and said “Oh, Yeah??? Well, next time you see that grumpy old granddad, you just hug him and tell him his hate goes unrequited. I will love him always and ever. Give him a great big squeeze and tell him that’s from me.” My son looked astonished, then relieved.

“Nothing shocks people who hate you more than refusing to hate them back,” I said, winking. He smiled broadly and returned my wink. He understood. True Power is not in reacting eye for eye, grievance for grievance, hate for hate. It’s deciding that their hatred simply holds no power over you.

During one of the first Christmases together after the divorce, his father asked me, “I get it. You don’t want to be Piglet and Pooh any more. So, who are you now? Kanga? Owl? Ha! I’ll bet you think you are Christopher Robin.”

“No, my Dear, I’m not any of the characters in the Hundred Acre Woods,” I said quietly. Then, in a proud and happy voice, I announced, “I am The Narrator!”

The stories we tell about who we love and what is happening to us (or for us) matter immensely. Ultimately, the original Christmas Story is a story of salvation that starts with an unconventional family adapting to tough circumstances, of seeking mercy in at a time of need, and of the rebirth of Hope in a dark time (with friendly sheep and oxen nearby!)

The story I am living now is a story of infinite love and forgiveness, of tolerance and patience. It’s a story where we laugh, we learn, we weep, we try again to Mend. Divorce is not the end of a family. It is the end of a contract. New covenants can be made and better, cleaner, wiser promises kept.

I tell those in the gut-wrenching aches of recent separations and betrayals that they get to decide what kind of family they want going forward. Nothing is “over”; it all continues according to the parameters we set. Most hearts are like a storm-torn bough of hardy Vermont Maple—you need to know you can’t ignite them with a single spark. You must crumple up all of Yesterday’s obsolete words, and make all the splinters in your soul into kindling. You pile up all the little stuff and breathe gently on it to fan the sparks. Do the tiny things first. Little things will ignite bigger things. No act of kindness is too small. In cases like mine, it won’t be the all-or-nothing grand gesture but the relentless accumulation of tiny acts of generosity and “good will towards man” over time that creates “A Wonderful Life.”

From our home to yours, I wish you all the love and light and cookies you can handle. On this, the longest night of the year, I hope you dream BIG of all the Love you can bring into this world. Keep Mending. Thank you for your Wonderful Work. Thank you, for reading, sharing, subscribing.

I love you Sew Much!

Yours aye,

N. Jingle Bell (who grows a little more Silver with each passing year)