When I moved to France, I left behind my Christmas decorations, but certainly not my Christmas spirit.
The first thing in my new collection was a cardinal that I painted. A female cardinal. A symbol for me in so many ways. A visit from those who had passed on. A vision of hope. Not to mention my high school mascot. A winged collection of all that I am. All that I can be.
And never was it more true. I carried it all with me. Hope won’t weigh you down. Nothing is lighter, except perhaps joy.
I have added to my collection through the years, but it’s these wings that begin my celebration of the season. Long before Thanksgiving. They can’t be contained by calendar or country.
I’m writing to you today from Paris. But no different than yesterday from Aix en Provence. I am just here. With you. And what a comfort that is. Knowing it, I can believe my mom sits beside me, planning her outfits and sipping her latte. My grandma fills her purse with extra snacks. My grandpa perches his pipe between silent lips. My husband smiles at me, knowing our table is always full.
I don’t need the Starbuck’s cup to tell me that it’s Christmas. My heart and wings already know.