The sound of light

There is a single candle in the center of the room, and a few notes floating from a harp in the corner. Before my eyes adjust to the gloom, I think it is the usual accompanist, and can only make out which chairs are empty or taken, but not the faces. When Number One walks past with a candle, I realize that it is Teacher Jenny, his old preschool teacher, come home to roost in a new guise. I wonder what she is thinking, for it is she who introduced us to this contemplative festival of light as we head into the darkest season of the year.

The first year was in a tiny, cramped living room in the house that doubled as our nascent school assembly room. The spiral of pine boughs couldn’t have been more than a few feet across, and the children walking it were small. I recall the collective gasp when Little Annie bent too close to the flame and singed her hair, and the fleet spring of her teacher, who extinguished both fears and fire with a tight hug. I remember the year when we spilled into a Sunday school next door, with no harp, for Jenny had left the nest: her replacement was perched on a box in the corner with her flute, an angel-like Pan in her impish stature.

I recall the first time I saw this hall, and how I envisaged the spiral in front of me even on that bright spring day. It was clear to me that the space longed for this warm path. There was the year we put down sheets underneath, afraid that we would have to shampoo out sap, since we did not yet own the place.

I watch them now, these children. I have watched these preschoolers turn into young children, then older ones, and now I see a group of willowy almost-women with real curves, not-quite-men becoming more gangly with every step of their oversized puppy feet. When it is my turn, I want to linger, for the path is littered with treasures at every turn: a wooly gnome, a fern frond, a polished stone, a knitted ginger cat.

When the last candle is lit, the harp fades away, and our collective light fills the void. No one makes as to leave, no children fidget or cough. The silence radiates around us as we breathe in the warm glow. We fill ourselves with this light, and head home in the biting cold, ready to face the dark.

Turkey soup

There is a reason that I’m chopping carrots in my nightgown.

The two turkeys provided by two incredible women and the myriad of side dishes and pies were reduced to very little in the way of leftovers, but we snagged two treasures: a tiny plastic container of stuffing (enough to fight over, and a reason to see Patti again, to return the Tupperware) and a turkey carcass.

As expected when I eat things I shouldn’t eat (stuffing and pumpkin pie spring readily to mind), I woke with a headache. I swallowed some herbs and hoped for the best. Our Plan of the Day was to hitch a bus into town and take the monorail to Seattle Center, where Nose in a Book was to be performing with the Junior Symphony, but her mom called to say she was sick, so we regrouped. Black Friday and downtown isn’t particularly interesting to those of us who eschew materialism, and the sun was shining, so we made some calls. Some fellow first-grade parents were game for a day in the park and a good long walk, so we met up in St. Edward’s State Park and let the kids play for a bit, then headed down to the water. The cool air and warm sun felt wonderful, and we capped it off by helping them work their way through their yummy and allergen-free leftovers.

We had one more social stop for the evening, dropping in on our British neighbors for drinks and little noshes. By this time, my head had not improved and I was feeling crushingly tired, clear harbingers of a cold. And sure enough, the next morning I woke groggy and congested.

Darling Husband put on his shining armor and took both boys away for the bulk of the day, indulging the boys in such Daddy adventures as a blueberry pancake breakfast and cool shoe shopping. I figured I needed soup, but with nothing in the larder (I’d used it for the stuffing), and no one to do my bidding (here at least), I threw a sweater on over my nightie and headed to the kitchen. Making stock takes very little energy (no need to chop anything), and putting it on a low flame meant that I could get a good snooze in before making soup, also a low-energy effort. Celery, carrots and a couple of handfuls of rice meant that supper was simmering by the time the boys made their way home.

Well-meaning folk told me I would regret the potluck aspect of this Thanksgiving, that there would be no leftovers. They are right, but they were wrong. We haven’t had extra meat for sandwiches, but we enjoyed friends’ leftovers, and a bubbling pot of turkey soup honors the effort of the turkey growers, reminds me of the warmth of the gathering, and heals my sniffles.

Which is why I was chopping carrots in my nightgown.