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.
We used to play croquet. Lawn darts. Frisbee. We’d throw or knock almost anything around the lawn on a Sunday afternoon. But it was horseshoes that my mother loved. That may surprise you. She, always so elegant. Bloused without a wrinkle. Creamed without a wrinkle. But once her church clothes were hung, folded. Her shoes put back in the original box. Her jewelry in the dresser. We would play. And she was good. Leaners. Ringers. She could really do it! And maybe it was the unexpected that added to the joy. This letting go. This letting fly. Tossing and clanking every “should have” and every “supposed to”.
Walking through Centennial Lakes park, I see them playing croquet and mini golf. Pedaling big ducks on the water. Not to win. Not to get anywhere, but just to be! The freedom of play. And I think, wouldn’t it be great if we allowed this for everyone. Allowed people to not just be one thing. Didn’t put them in a box. Label them. That if they had one thought, they could only have that thought.
I don’t want to be contained. I can still hear the mantra of the Stevie Nicks 45 that my mother played again and again, “Leather and Lace.” It could have easily been ruffles and horseshoes.
This trip I have shopped at the finest stores in the Galleria. I have thrifted at the Goodwills. Joy is everywhere. Not to be contained. I, we, can toss and clank the “rules,” and just enjoy!
Before I knew how to tell it. Before I owned a watch. Before Mrs. Bergstrom held up the big wooden face and moved the handles as we shouted out “before” and “after” numbers. Before all of this, there was only the sound of my mother’s voice, calling to the empty lot between Dynda’s house and ours. Where we chased the setting sun, and with only a handful of Norton girls, the lot was never in fact, empty. Bats and balls and bikes. Shoes and sweatshirts making bases. And depending on the season, flattened tracks of grass, flattened tracks of snow. Paths that only led us to believe, there would always be time.
I don’t know where I learned it. It seemed we all just knew to ask for it — five more minutes. Vowing to make the most of each. In those five minutes we would gather all the fun. All of joy of youth stuffed neatly in our pockets. We wouldn’t waste it. No. Please, please, five minutes more. After which, we would ask again. And we kept asking until the sound of all the porch mothers on Van Dyke Road lowered their voices and we knew it was, in fact, time.
Each year, I try to slow it down. The untangling of lights. The raising of ornaments. The wrapping of gifts. I read the poems slowly and sing the songs loudly. Promising with all my intention that I will indeed value each moment. I really promise. Just let it pass slowly. And in that blink, as I run all the bases of December, I can hear the voice of Christmas morning saying, “It’s time.”
