Merry Christmas everyone! It pleases me to the skies to have arrived in the season where I can say that. Here in the mountains, our tree is glitteringly up and there are candles galore flittering in every shadow of the house. The first Christmas party takes place tomorrow night, and the first Christmas visit trip (to Nashville!) begins on Thursday. I’ve mentioned my forays to KY before to visit Gwen, one of my favorite people in the world. She visited my family every year at Christmas from before I was born, and this year, we get to go to her and spend a couple of days in lovely old Nashville on the way. I’m breathless with the rush and fun of the season already.
Thank you all so many times over for your lovely comments and congratulatory emails and orders regarding my new book. Your sharing in this joy with me is the first of my Christmas gifts, I’m pink-cheeked with delight. Someone commented that for those who don’t live here in Colorado, I ought to post a bit of what I’ll be sharing and some of the books I’ll be reviewing at the tea. I think that’s a grand idea.
Now that the first wildness of the holidays is over, I’ll be posting again. I have so many thoughts stored up. For now, here’s a poem I read recently that gripped my spirit and wouldn’t let go:
Wild geese are flocking and calling in pure golden air,
Glory like that which painters long ago
Spread as a background for some little hermit
Beside his cave, giving his cloak away,
Or for some martyr stretching out
On her expected rack.
A few black cedars grow nearby
And there’s a donkey grazing.
Small craftsmen, steeped in anonymity like bees,
Gilded their wooden panels, leaving fame to chance,
Like the maker of this wing-flooded golden sky,
Who forgives all our ignorance
Both of his nature and of his very name,
Freely accepting our one heedless glance.
“A November Sunrise” by Anne Porter, from An Altogether Different Language. © Zoland Books, 1994.