Toast to Tradition (sort of)

Tradition.

It allows us to dance in the streets at Mardi Gras and demands a sacrificial turkey at Thanksgiving. It reflects culture, history and our personal stories. And of late, it has been on my mind.

This particular chain of ruminations was sparked by a casual encounter in the bank lobby a week or two ago. I was seated, waiting on a bank officer, when three women walked in: two in traditional Middle Eastern garb and one not.  I waved at the seats near me, commenting, “You might prefer sitting over here – if you sit in those chairs (gesturing to the other side), you'll be in the sun.” The woman not wearing a hijab smiled, sat down next to me and countered, “But I’m from Kuwait. I’m used to being in the sun!” 

We laughed and fell into conversation. With one bank officer on duty and half-a-dozen customers waiting, there was plenty of time to chat.

My new acquaintance shared that she had come for the wedding of a nephew and was reveling in the chance to spend time with her sisters, whom she had not seen in a while. Then she said something profoundly gracious. “I love that my first visit to your country happened during your Christmas. As a Muslim, I respect Jesus highly and think your traditions celebrating his birth are beautiful.”

My first thought was that she must not have gotten stuck yet in the madness of a sale-induced frenzy at the mall.  

But on the heels of that thought was appreciation for the ease with which she let me know “This is who I am. I see who you are. I respect your story.”  

When the bank officer called my name, I kind of wished he’d delayed a little longer. There was a certain delight in that casual, unguarded encounter of two people from very different traditions.

Thus, my current line of reflection.

Tonight, our tradition dictates that we restart the clock. Over the past 12 months we have filled the stage of 2015 and tonight, on the stroke of midnight, we are supposed to let it go. In the tradition I grew up with, we set fire to the stage on which we have placed our memories of the unforgettable, missed chances to fix the unfixable, and the failed certainty that those 10 pounds would never find us again.

Tomorrow will rise from the ashes, a clean slate, complete with resolutions with which to fill 2016.

Except that I already made my resolution before Christmas. I even blogged about it.

And I don’t really want to let 2015 go up in smoke. Even the painful moments are part of my story.

So tonight, I’m bending tradition a little. Instead of letting go of the old, I’m learning something new. (Or will, as soon as I quit procrastinating. Honestly, the tutorial for my something new is 4 hours long!)

Not a fan of black-eyed peas, I generally opt for the Spanish tradition of eating 12 grapes. But I’m out of grapes and the grocery store was too busy for comfort, so I'm bending that tradition, too.

I'm thinking 4 grapes per glass of wine should be about right. 

Happy New Year, everyone!

Wishing you a very sticky Christmas

I know what Christmas smells like, and it isn’t pumpkin pie. It’s Scotch tape.

When I was a little girl, there were noises that meant Christmas - like the crowds and vendors in the streets and the bustle of the Tía department store in downtown Quito. There was the taste of ice cream in Aloag on our way back down the mountains. And finally, once we were home and scurried to our own little corners to wrap gifts, Dad would pull out the good tape. The Scotch tape with its own distinctive smell. 
 

Over the years, that smell came to mean home and family and excitement around the corner.

Over the more recent years, I have become a master at losing the tape.  Every Christmas I buy more, not because we use it up but because I’ve lost the tape purchased the year before. It simply disappears into the multitude of boxes and drawers of things “I’ll put away someday”.

As I’ve gotten caught up in the rush of work, of keeping up with friends and family, of always moving from one project to the next, one event to the next, the toe-tingling excitement of things around the corner is also often missing.

As my family has settled, each in our own pocket of the world, there’s no more dashing down a different stair in Tía so my brother won’t see what I bought him, or waiting till my sister leaves the room so I can wrap her present (which is in a super-top-secret hiding place under my bed). My children are grown and have their own lives, my parents have passed away.  

Someday, I want to sell my house and move to something a little less permanent.  I don’t like geographic roots. If you look around my house, you’ll find few pictures on the walls. There are several boxes that have never quite been unpacked. 

It occurred to me recently, though, that by never fully moving in I haven’t avoided roots; I’ve avoided a home. I’ve failed to truly live where I am.

So I’ve decided. In the spirit of Christmas and life renewed, this is my season to reset.  I’m emptying boxes, pulling out pictures to hang. Tomorrow, my kids and grandkids are all coming together for our Christmas celebration and excitement is starting to lap the edges of my toes. It’s time to make “home” a way of life, no matter where I live it.

And if inspiration to keep my reset on track is ever needed, all I have to do is look at the stacks of Scotch tape in my desk. I have Christmas in a drawer and plenty to share.

In fact, so far, I’ve found seven years’ worth.

(c) Can Stock Photo

Panic and a can of spray

Just call me Slayer.

Early this morning I was sitting at my desk when I saw a bug wander across the papers in front of me. It looked like a “kissing bug” – you know, the kind that spreads chagas disease. Unsure of its identity, short on sleep and even shorter on patience, I grabbed the bamboo backscratcher from its place by my desk and brought it down with a mighty whack.

I’d forgotten that the borrowed pugs were underneath my desk.

Instantly, the air was filled with the sound of panicked pugs. Stella scrambled out and barked into the air, uncertain where the threat was.  Jake started sliding on the wooden floor, his little paws frantically trying to gain traction. He twisted and turned until he somehow slid into a slow, backwards circle. Stella stopped barking to watch.

As I laughed, I was struck by how often we humans do the same thing.  The more vulnerable we feel, the more we bark at imagined bogeymen, trying to gain traction as we slide in hopeless circles.

Late this evening, I was back at my desk for a bit. The exhausted pugs were in their kennel in the other room.

Suddenly, movement caught the corner of my eye. I turned. Skittering across my floor was another bug. (I’m seeing more of them lately and the culprit is me. It just seems silly to close the door every time I let the dogs out.)

This bug, however, was a cockroach. A really big cockroach. The kind guaranteed to give me instant heebie-jeebies.

I glanced around me. No shoes, of course; not in my house. The only things in reach - that were hard enough - were my favorite law dictionary and my external hard drive. I went digital and lobbed the hard drive at the beast.

And missed. The cockroach had a few heart palpitations and skittered in a different direction. I picked up the hard drive and threw it again. Missed again. I forced myself to stop and actually think.

Bug spray! There was some under the kitchen sink. The can promised that it “kills on contact”, so I wrestled with the top, took aim and sprayed.

The cockroach ignored it. 

I sprayed again. This time the roach slowed just a smidge.  At the rate we were going, it was a toss-up as to whether the roach would make it to the vent or I would run out of spray first. So much for death on contact.

Or maybe not.

Grabbing the spray once again, I snuck up on the slowing monster. Taking careful aim, I slammed the can down on top of it. Twice.

And that’s another thing about us humans. Once we let go of panic, we can usually find a way to make things work.

Even if it takes a back scratcher and a spray can.