Seasons of Love

 

525, 600 minutes
525, 000 moments so dear
525, 600 minutes
How do you measure, measure a year?

In daylights, in sunsets, in midnights, in cups of coffee
In inches, in miles, in laughter, in strife
In 525, 600 minutes
How do you measure a year in the life?

How about love?
How about love?
How about love?
Measure in love
Seasons of love
Seasons of love

525, 600 minutes
525, 000 journeys to plan
525, 600 minutes
How do you measure the life of a woman or man?

In truths that she learned, or in times that he criеd
In bridges he burned, or thе way that she died

It's time now to sing out
Though the story never ends
Let's celebrate, remember a year
In the life of friends

Remember the…

Mary and I have been listening to the new Pentatonix Christmas album. This song from Rent is new to me. I put it on repeat. As a Suzuki Piano teacher, I'm not subject to song burnout. Hearing the same song or piece over and over again for a couple hours actually sorts out my brain waves. 

Here is the link to listen to the song. "Season's of Love" link.

In cups of coffee. In journey's planned. Calvin and Mary have a game where they pick a random place on the globe and plan a trip there. Hotels, airfare, restaurants and museums. Calvin has a whole itinerary for he and I to take a trip. The year of cancelled plans. 

Bill is getting caught up with putting photos on my computer. Instead of albums called "Piano Festival in Italy" and "Mary and Janel in the Czech Republic" the folders are called "April Lockdown" and "Covid Walks."  

Bill and I have not been on a date since our anniversary March 14. The next week the restaurants closed. 

Still, spring, summer, fall, and now winter, have been seasons of love. 

This too shall pass. And we will be stronger and more resilient. More tough and more tender. 

Mary is in her room on Zoom school eight hours a day. Day after day. One day at a time. Practice. Try to set up a horizon. The next thing to look forward to. And try not to worry that it won't be cancelled. 

Try to say yes to as much as we can. This year 23 out of 27 students are playing Carol of the Bells for the Christmas Recital. Only a slight exaggeration. Every kid gets to play whatever they want. We will make videos to share. I've got some surprises cooking for the studio kids. 

I started this blog ten years ago. I'm not so naive to think that what I have to say is terribly interesting. It's not going viral. It's just therapy for me and a bit of a family journal. 

Seasons of love. That's what we have had this year. Spring. Summer. Fall. Winter. That's really about all we got. Love. Family time. 

Piano kids. I want them to know that where there's a will there's a way. Or as Amit, one of my piano dads said, "where there's a Bill there's a way." It's true. I have a great husband. We all give 100% everyday. Keep showing up. 

Seasons of love. Let's celebrate a year. Truths we've learned. In laughter. In strife. Keep going, Mary. 

So Close and Yet So Far ~ a different kind of Christmas

So close but yet so far. That is the phrase that keeps going through my head. I've been having unprecedented insomnia. Hmm. Don't you just hate those two words?  

There is nothing to fear but fear itself. The fear of not sleeping will induce insomnia quicker than a second espresso. Motherhood prepares you for this. We can function even on zero hours. But, it's nothing close to our very best self. This too shall pass. I should have gotten the tattoo years ago. I repeat, as every year passes, caregivers, secure your own oxygen mask. I know how to get the low hanging self care fruit. 

As I decorate for Christmas, with no one coming, no parties, no recitals, probably not many friends stopping by, I'm taken back to the ghosts of Christmas past. All the way back. The smell of cranberry candle in my Eldridge, Iowa house. My mom having everything perfect. Rag curlers in our hair. The Harry Simeone Choral Little Drummer Boy on the record player, with Fred Waring and the Pennsylvanians cued up. Her home sewn decorations everywhere. Little red lights in the cupboard. 

Then, the Christmases I lived alone, completely broke, in Austin. The ornaments my Austin students gave me each year. The gingerbread houses they made for me. The little Christmas plates and mugs my sister gave me for graduation. They came from the fancy Williams Sonoma store and I still cherish them. Eleven years of the long cold drive home across the country. Seventeen hours in good weather. Please, celebrate me home. 

Then marriage and the years of littles. The years of the Christmas train. You can go back to past blogs to read the INSANE amount of activities we had to fit in between Thanksgiving and Christmas. Forgive us our Christmases as we forgive. . . 

This year there is no calendar stress. It is a different kind of Christmas. The calendar is virtually, ha, ha, get it. . . "virtually" empty. Yet we have different kinds of stress. To wish for things to be different is a recipe for melancholy. So, let's just wish for what we have, a peaceful holiday time where we focus on keeping people well while preserving as much as we can of traditional Christmas life. Pay attention to what people might be needing, try to lift each other up while acknowledging that it's okay to just be what we are. We really can't fix it. We can just be there. Thank you to my family and friends for listening to the daily sleep report. I'm also happy to listen to your daily report as well, whatever that might be. I'll try to listen. 

This morning I discovered a new Christmas album. It's Enya's 2019 Christmas album. When I was practicing for my graduation recital, I listened to a lot of Enya. I needed music to get the other music out of my head in order to sleep. I needed music, that is, without too much going on. A pure voice and slow predictable harmonic progressions. 

Here is a link if you need something like this: Enya Christmas

So close and yet so far. Sleep. Grandparents. Friends. Christmas. Christmas past. Christmas future. And here we are in Christmas now. A different kind of Christmas. 

I started writing this yesterday morning. Yesterday afternoon my mom's dog Josie was hit by a Fed Ex truck. Josie was a good dog. She was loved by all for nine good years. The pain is the price we pay for loving. We are not going to stop loving. Still, things can change very fast, as fast as a truck going by the mailbox. I can think back to every moment when I lost a pet. They are etched. Thank you Josie, for being a good companion to Janel. Janel, we are all thinking of you and wishing you peace. 

Well, I'm almost done with my decorations. And then we bake, and then we wrap presents. That's how it's done around here. And in between we wait for the kid to come home. And wait for school to start again. And wait to see each other in pure joy. 

Peace to you. And little moments of connection and joy. We are not going to stop loving. We aren't going to stop Christmas -- Dr. Fauci said Santa is immune. It's just going to be a little different. There is a lot to be thankful for. 

I apologize for the rambling blog. It's a little bit where I'm at I guess. Not in a huge hurry and letting my  mind wander back and forth from year to year and on to some huge party next year with caroling and appetizers and huge spreads of cookies for the children. On to live Christmas shows. And live church choirs. Mixing generations. 

I'm thinking of the last scene of the Grinch, when Grinch can't stop Christmas from coming. I like that. It will come without all its usual glory. It will be a different kind of Christmas, but I'm still showing up for as many people as I can. 

Merry Christmas and big hugs to all of you who keep reading this, year after year, through the ups and downs, the high highs and the low lows. I love you all very much.