I don’t know how many times I sang the song, “I wish I had a river…” Joni Mitchell was a staple in our house, so when it was “coming on Christmas,” she was on repeat. How many wishes did I make for that river, a river so long that I could skate away on, before I even knew what it would mean?
It wasn’t a river where I learned to skate. In fact it was a pond. Noonan’s Pond. And by “learned” I mean, fell and broke my arm. (Maybe that’s where all lessons are learned, in the falling.) All of my summers were spent attempting to fly. From diving boards to bicycle wheels, I was certain that my feet could leave the ground. It was no different with the change in weather. When the lakes ponds and froze over, I was certain, it was simply another way to take flight.
I wore my full plastered arm, like a badge of courage. Every fifth grader celebrated the attempt. All knowing, valuing, what that breeze felt like underfoot.
The needles are already falling from our tree on this sacred eve. But it’s ok. I learned it long ago on the ice. I learn it daily, simply loving. All the rivers to cross. There will be so many stumbles and falls, and letting ins and letting gos…all breezes under our hearts, under our feet, this love teaches us daily, how to fly.
I wasn’t that close to my Aunt Mavis. There was just so many of us. You had to simply pick a few Hvezdas and go with it. When we gathered for Christmas, Grandma Elsie made sure that we each had something small to open. The certainty of her gift made it a little easier to wait as the packages were read, passed and opened. We didn’t buy for each family. There wouldn’t have been enough money or time.
I was around six years old when I received the somewhat questionable gift of red lace bloomers from Grandma, but I hugged her belly and kissed grandpa’s cheek, and returned to my mother’s lap. It was quite a surprise when one of my cousins handed me a second package. There must be some mistake, I thought, but there was my name. And the urge to question was far surpassed by the knowing of what it was. Its box shape, and heft told me that it was a book. A big book. Whoever gave this to me, must have known that I loved words on pages. The bright red Christmas paper torn open revealed a bright red cover. A giant book of Disney stories. The wonderful world of Disney. It was every Sunday night at 6pm on the only channel that we received on Van Dyke Road — right there, held in my hands. It was if Tinkerbell herself had waved the wand and released the magic.
I was holding it to my chest when she asked if I liked it. I beamed. Yes, yes, I do! She smiled, and limped back to a wooden chair in the dining room. In that moment, I wished I knew more about her than just her having a bad hip. I whispered in my mom’s ear, “It was from Aunt Navis.” My mom whispered back, “Her name is Mavis.”
I’d like to say we grew to be fast friends, but it isn’t true. I did save the book. It remains on my Christmas miracle list.
We don’t always return the gifts that we are given. Is it enough to pass them on, to others, who won’t return to you, but pass them on again? I hope so. I have to believe it. So I limp the words on the page, and maybe I give you a Christmas smile, and maybe you pass it on to the stranger on the slippery sidewalk. Maybe you hold a door, or offer a compliment. Maybe you say their name correctly, with enthusiasm, and they feel seen. And maybe, just maybe, the magic is sprinkled, and continues throughout the years.
Thank you, Aunt Mavis. You are part of my story, and it is beautiful.
