New Beginnings

Just when the caterpillar thought his life was over... he began to fly. - Proverb

The year is drawing in, its dead-end part looming. The house is dark as the boughs of the crabapple tree lean against the window. Snow is piled on the deck railing outside. 

Yet there's something soft in the air today, some new optimism, that rhythmic fiction of early spring, so sweet to be deceived by. I feel as if a page were turning. 

Maybe it's the weak winter sun shining through, gleaming off the moist bark of the trees. Maybe it's the quiet promise of a warming feeling underneath the bite of wet and the chill of the cutting wind.

So I close my eyes to old ends, and suddenly I know. 

Hold the smile, let the tear go. Keep the laughter, lose the pain. Look for joy, and abandon the fear.  

It's time to start something different and trust the magic of new beginnings.

From Me, To You!

Simple Gifts

By By, Lully, Lullay

Simple Gifts

Lullay, thou little tiny child. - Lyrics, Coventry Carol

I'm looking at a pink crocheted ball that's about an inch in diameter. I've just made a doll's head, I say tentatively. In amigurumi style, no less. Amigurumi is the Japanese art of crocheting small, stuffed yarn creatures. Thus encouraged, I dutifully follow the rest of the pattern to complete my nativity set.

It has taken me several days to finish, and I now peruse the figures in my creche, marveling how a series of single-crochet stitches can create forms which when sewn together and stuffed can result into distinctive-looking characters. I beam at them and gush, You've come alive.

They look at me with wide-set French-knotted eyes. Mary's sweep of brown bangs peeks underneath a disproportionately-long veil. I stare amazed at the male figures' beard. How manly-looking! I'm quite satisfied as to how their elaborate head coverings have turned out. The magi each bears a crocheted mini yellow ball, their gift to Baby Jesus. Joseph carries a staff made from brown floral stem. All have been robed elaborately with a colorful outer garment.

The baby's head is topped with a curly tuft of hair made of yarn. He's snuggled in a white blanket set on a brown manger. Cut pieces of green yarn simulate hay. And, yes, the requisite donkey brays its completion. An ojo de Dios, literally 'God's eye,' woven out of yarn around two crossed sticks is on standby as the guiding star.

I carefully position my dolls in the moss-covered twig stable purchased from Goodwill. 

Mary looks at her newborn over distant eyes, like someone one might see in dreams, her face serene. She unconsciously narrows her eyes and purses her mouth as she contemplates her surroundings. Then the corners of her mouth turn up, her smile like a slice of summer watermelon. My soul gives glory to the Lord, she whispers, her hands in prayer. She contemplates all the things that have been said to her, pondering them in her heart.

Elongated by the lamplight, Joseph's shadow looms over his family. His high forehead creases into rows of parallel wrinkles. Heavy brows form a straight line underneath. Looking as placid as the man on the moon gazing down upon earth, he fixes his eyes on the infant, fine lines forming out from their corners, as if he were teaching him something important. You shall be named Jesus, he gently says.

The baby stares at Joseph without blinking, the way one looks at a stranger or some unknown object. Then his faces brightens with a small encouraging smile.

Outside, the sky has cleared and a single star is the only light, yet it dazzles, filling the entire heavens. A donkey grazes quietly on the outskirts of the stable, as if it were holding its breath, waiting. Then the strain of music, soft and distant, floats in from some invisible herald of angels. 

The air changes, becoming electric as the Magi walk into the stable. I marvel at how they have come at once without anyone having to invite them, as if they had been summoned there by magic. After strutting back and forth, gesturing grandly, they stand around the manger.

We have seen His star in the East, the first one begins, his finely-cut lips relaxed into a half smile. His eyebrows are expressive, rising and lowering at various angles. 

The second visitor's eyebrows are thick and very black, tilting up at the corners, but his eyes crinkle up as he smiles. The star led us by night with a light on the road which we should travel, he says humbly.

The third one has sagging jowls. His brows, drawn together, are dark as well, but even though his tone is gruff, his watery eyes twinkle as he lapses into babbling idiocy with the infant. You're the promised Messiah, he says amiably, stepping quickly toward the baby. The latter seems to like it. He breaks into a broad toothless grin as he looks at him. 

The night is so silent that I can hear the sound of distant stars moving across the heavens. I feel like only this moment, unanchored and drifting free of time, exists.  

A Charlie Brown Christmas Tree

Simple Gifts

I never thought it was such a bad little tree. It's not bad at all, really.

Maybe it just needs a little love. - Linus

It will be a Minimalist Christmas.

I will no longer ask for gifts. No strung luminarias, wreaths of holly and mistletoe, and lit greenery festooned on the stair railing, I say soberly. There will be no frantic search for the tallest Noble fir. In fact, the singular yule feature in our home will be a Charlie Brown tree.

Some assembly required, it says on the box. I nod slowly. That should be a cinch. To my piddly humming of O Tannenbaum, I eagerly proceed to open the small, longish box. 

Inside is a shabby, slender branch with a side shoot of a smaller twig that is covered with brown florist tape. It's like papier-mache around wire. The sparse pine needles randomly scattered on the otherwise-barren limbs are made of synthetic pine straw made from recycled polypropylene. 

I set the sad-looking bough onto the base made of two crisscrossed slim pieces of wood. Fully extended, the tree stands about a couple of feet high. It looks rickety, but I carefully balance the scanty branches. There, it shouldn't topple over now, I say crisply, with a reassuring smile.

With a mock formal tilt of the head and my lower lip protruded, I stare at the scrawny configuration firmly. I take two steps closer. After it's fully adorned, my Christmas tree will be just right, I muse thoughtfully. Besides, I think... It. Needs. Me. I whisper, putting great emphasis on the final three words and patting the air in a soothing gesture.

I unwrap the red ornament from the blue Linus blanket that is included and hang it strategically on a side branch which promptly flops over to one side instead of remaining upright. That looks nice just the way it is, I say out loud, solemnly clasping my hands.

Outside, a wintry wind rattles the bare, black branches of the cottonwood trees. Stars wheel through the sky, and the moon trickles its golden light over the canopy of night. The lights of the city dance in the far distance like a band of fireflies. I peer over my tree and reflect on Linus' heartfelt recitation of the Christmas story.

And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field,

keeping watch over their flock by night.

And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord

shone round about them: and they were sore afraid.

And the angel said unto them, Fear not; for, behold,

I bring you tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people.

I fall into silence, drawn by the astonishing import of the gospel news. 
This, I say in a soft, hushed voice, is what Christmas is all about. 

I swear I can see a multitude of the heavenly host nodding in agreement.

Puto Bumbong

Simple Gifts

In my island home, Misa de Gallo or Rooster's Mass is held in the early morning from December 16-24 in anticipation of the birth of Jesus.

Putò bumbóng is a purple, sticky rice dessert steamed in bamboo tubes, buttered, then sprinkled with sugar and shredded coconut.
Dali means hurry up. Kakanin - dessert. Manang is a title of respect for elderly women. Sarap - delicious.

I look over to the east. It is almost dawn. A thin light filters through the curtains. I'm still drowsy with sleep, but nothing will entice me to wake up for Misa de Gallo than the prospect of a puto bumbong snack afterward.

Dadee barks a laugh, Ready to go? My voice sharpens in response, Ready! as I race to the front door.

Sidewalks are already busy. People are conferring happily and talking in excited tones. A handful of children are runnning barefoot, laughing and shouting. They yell in hurried tones, Dali! Waving, I grin down on them. Along the way, I crane my neck at busy tables groaning with sweets and take in the smell of ginger tea, hot chocolate, and roasted rice coffee. My smile grows, seeing the white lights gleam, strung from one corner of makeshift tienda stores to the other.

The allure of delicious kakanin has made it hard for me to focus on the church service. Deaconess Afrie welcomes both the bright-eyed folks and those whom she says will need a toothpick to hold their eyelids up. I make an effort to perk up as I realize that she may be referencing the latter remark to me. 

The pastor takes his stand on the pulpit. My brothers and sisters in Christ, welcome to today's celebration. Dawn is arriving and the light of day is upon us, he begins cheerfully. The choir responds with a voice that  rises, passion upon passion, leading us in the singing of Las Mananitas, the "little morning" song. 

I stare at him. Please make the sermon short today, my mouth begins to contort. I vaguely hear some reference to penance. After the communal blessing, we respond with the act of contrition. Then with the rest of the faithful, I recite requisite litanies that resound off the walls of the parish, feeling out the stone arches. Is it over yet? I ask, leaning toward Dadee confidentially. He shushes me. After seemingly never-ending prayers, I hear, Amen. I smile broadly as I scurry outside to my favorite stall. I'm famished. 

I observe the creation of the puto bumbong, my expression rapt. In a large bowl, Manang Rosa mixes the purple yam powder and glutinous rice flour. Then she gradually adds enough water to make a dough. Her adept hands knead it smoothly. 

I cock my head in hopeful anticipation, How much longer, Manang? She answers, Sandali na lang. Soon, with exaggerated patience. 

Gingerly, she pinches off about two tablespoons of the dough, shaping it into an elongated five-inch roll. She greases a narrow bamboo tube with oil and pushes the dough through, then sets it on top of a cylindrical base inside of which are coralled smoldering hot coals. In less than five minutes, the sticky delicacy is done. She shakes it loose from the bumbong tube, tops it with margarine, muscovado sugar, and grated coconut. Heto! Here! she says, pride ringing in her voice as she hands me the still-warm treat.

I immediately unfold the banana leaves in which the puto has been wrapped. 
I take one small bite, humming as I press it with my tongue to the high curve of my mouth to make it last. It is so good that I want to go there, to that delicate taste on the roof of my mouth and melt there. Sarap! I continue to nibble at one end of it until it has disappeared between my lips. I use my fingers to lop off its oily topping. The coconut flakes get all over my vestida dress. 

Light is spilling out on the street. People are milling about, children's loud squeals are echoing off the houses. I slowly walk home, my face beaming with satisfaction. 

There are times when life is limitless in its simplicity.