Holiday Present...Holiday Past
By Ron Marr (11/16/03)
The truth of the matter is that I usually don't remember a holiday until it has come and gone, until it creeps on slippered feet through the backdoor of memory. Time and remembrance are beyond our control, and the sights, sounds, scents and laughter of then are often more a reality than the events of now.
There are reasons for this. In the pragmatic and personal, holidays simply are not a grand celebration for the hermit soul. Our choices have not been the choices of the majority, and all too frequently the warm camaraderie of kith and kin are largely absent. We are far removed from friends and family; those whom we love the best reside thousands of miles away. They exist and they are cherished - make no mistake - but our relationships consist of a feeling in the heart, a voice on the end of the line, the spark of possible tomorrows and dreams of what may be.
But, such isolation does not make the holidays any less precious. In fact, it makes their worth inestimable. One can never truly appreciate something of great value until they have left it behind, observed it from the periphery, just out of grasp and thus all the more tangible. The obverse side of the coin is a great teacher; I suspect life would be more kind if we were all to spend a bit more time visiting the antithesis of the good fortune we take for granted.
How can one truly enjoy wealth until they have tasted poverty, honestly revel in the rush of love until they have suffered heartache? How can one be grateful for fine health until they have experienced illness, fully appreciate a friendly voice without having first spent months in utter silence?
How can one revere a holiday until they have spent it apart from those who mean the most? The worth of a thing, I think, is measured in how much you miss it when it's gone.
And so, as the holiday season appears on the near horizon, visions of days not forgotten fill my mind and soul. The memory is the downy comfort of an heirloom quilt on a frosty November night. From a forgotten kitchen I hear the tinkling of ice against glasses, the bubbling of pots, the friendly buzz of an oven timer. Somewhere, bread is baking. Somewhere, the skin of a turkey turns golden brown. Somewhere, there is a kind smile and the welcoming touch of a gnarled hand.
A certain calm envelops the living room, quiet conversations revolve around current events. They speak of what has been and what will come, the nostalgia and wisdom of those no longer with us interspersed with a groan as the muted television displays a score for the opposing team. The voices speak of unformed plans, wishes granted and hopes for the future. Candles flicker and are reflected in the face of the good china. Though all may not be well with the world, for a few brief hours all is well in the oasis called home.
This Thanksgiving I dare not visit yesterday but for a glimpse; the pull and desire is too intense, too vivid, too exhausting. The high and impenetrable reaches of the northern Rockies - the place I have called home for over a decade - are beautiful beyond words. I am thankful to have lived with the singing streams, the spires of ancient granite. I am thankful for the songs of coyote under a midnight sky, for the joy of seeing dogs romp in the midst of a February blizzard. I am thankful for backyard moose, bear and lion, for the roar of a fire at 40 below, for the tug of a wild trout on the end of the line, for the shooting starts that streak an unblemished sky.
This year though, the holidays lead me to another place. There is a fragrance in the air, an aroma redolent and sweet that beckons toward something new. toward a meal of unknown origin seasoned with the spice of moments held dear. I hunger with anticipation, but as well understand that I must bide my time until the entree is fully done. Patience is the salt of life; to rush an exquisite meal is to ruin it with haste.
Today's tomorrow is yesterday. Once again my father's favorite saying fills my mind, along with the images of holidays long sleeping which rest deep in my heart. They will remain with me always.
And someday, perhaps, if I'm very lucky, come forth on holidays yet to be born.
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