They came while he was away in the hospital tossing in acramped room, sweating for each breath.  Pneumonia,the doctor told him and he blanched at how deep into old age he’d come.  All that was left to do was break a hip, feelhis mind smooth into dementia, then he’d be gone.  Carol brought him home on her lunch break;his arms were bruised from needles, his nose raw from tubes, his back achedfrom lying in bed.   They were alreadythere, watching some history program on his TV, looking up innocently as thedoor opened and Carol maneuvered him in.

“Hey, there he is. How you feeling Joe?”  This fromDerrick, who had Carol’s wide set eyes and curly black hair.   He’d started calling him Joe when hegraduated from high school.  Too old for“grandpa” anymore, Carol said. 

“I’m a hell of a lot older than him and I’m not too old forit,” he’d said, but Carol just smiled and patted his hand like he was a crankyinfant.

Derrick’s greasy -haired girlfriend waved from the couch buthe didn’t have the energy to look at her. Jessica, or some such thing. Carol led him to the bedroom, got him settled in his recliner, fetchedhim a glass of water and a blanket. 

“Derrick and Jess will be here.  They’ve got my old room, across thehall.   Jess used to work in a nursing home, dad, soshe knows what she’s doing.  You’ll befine.  Remember I’ll be gone for the nexttwo weeks in Arizona, okay?”  He wavedher away.  He’d seen her more this weekthan he had in the last year.  She leanedover and hugged him.

“It worked out so good, didn’t it?  You needing someone to stay here and Derrickand Jess needing somewhere to stay? Definitely a God-thing.”  Shesmiled broadly, pleased with herself. Pleased she didn’t have to take time out of her life to nurse him, heknew.  He lifted the side of his mouthand she accepted it as a smile. 

“Bye dad!  Loveyou!” 


It was his femur, not his hip.  He’d been looking for the bottle of Glenlivethe’d stashed in the garage. Predictable.  High shelf, unevenfloor.  He’d lain on the concrete fortwenty minutes until Derrick heard him over the TV.  Now they had him trussed up in his ownbedroom, immobile.  Jess came in everycouple hours to help him shift positions, go to the bathroom.  She was stocky and square, with glasses thatwere always sliding down her nose and blotchy skin.  She smelled of sweat, but so did he.  Far as he knew, her entire vocabularyconsisted of, “That better?” and “All done now, Joe?”  with an occasional, “Mmmmm, dinner!” When sheleft, she always shut the door, even though he asked her to leave it open.  The air was stale, and he was sick of lookingat his own four walls.   In the house heheard doors opening, things shifting, bumps against the wall.  Derrick said they were just doing housework,keeping things up for him.  Derrick hadgrown fat in the months since he’d come. 

Carol called every Saturday from Arizona.  She’d met some guy on a hike at the GrandCanyon, quit her job over the phone and moved into his house.  It would last a few months, then she’d beasking him for money again.  “Just untilI find a job, dad.”   He’d be lucky tohave any money left.  Derrick was alwaysbringing him receipts for groceries, or gas, asking for a few bucks for this orthat on top of what he was paying them to be there. 


When he finally made it out of the bedroom a few weekslater, he thought he’d walked into a stranger’s house.  It was dark, all the blinds down. His couchwas gone, the set of armchairs by the window where he liked to read.  They’d been replaced by a brown sectionalthat took up most of the room.  His TVwas gone too, and the narrow, painted cabinet it was stored in.  In its place was a bigger TV, something blackand flat, perched on a plastic stand, vomiting wires and gadgets into theroom.  Derrick was sitting on the couch,playing one of his video games. 

“Hey Joe!  What do youthink?  We’ve been fixing things up foryou!” 

Jess came from the kitchen carrying a Diet Coke and wearinga grin.   She went and stood by Derrick,set one of her hands on his shoulder.  Hefelt disoriented.  Was he supposed tothank them?

“Where’s my furniture?” he asked.  “Where’s the couch?”  Jess’ grin dimmed a little. 

“We stored it for you, Joe. Mom’s got that unit over off Columbia? We thought…you know…maybe this place could be a little cheerier.  Maybe it would help you get well.”  Ever since he was a kid, Derrick had thetrick of looking innocent.  Now he raisedhis eyebrows, gave a hopeful smile.

“I suppose I paid for all this nonsense?”   

“Joe, we asked you, remember?” Derrick said at last.  “After you broke your leg.  Remember?  We thought we should make it easier for you to get around in here.”  Jess nodded her head earnestly, and her glasses slipped down her nose.  They’d done this before, asking his permission for things when he was on pain medications or half asleep.

His leg was aching. He limped back into his room and slammed the door.


The leg was healing. He could hobble around indoors, sit on the front porch on a sunny day,which was a relief because Derrick insisted the house be shut up and quiet whilehe was recovering.  He was craving sunlight.  He still hadn’t made it down into theyard.  The uneven ground was tootreacherous yet, the doctor said.  Everyweek Derrick came out and made a show of bending over one of the front flowerbeds, pulling up a few green things, moving dirt around as if he knew what hewas doing, but things were starting to look bad.  He couldn’t imagine what the back yard lookedlike.  The rose garden should have beenpruned by now, the grapes.  Janet’stulips must have come and gone already. The doctor said he shouldn’t fret about stuff he couldn’t control, thathis blood pressure was high enough already. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes.  The doctor ought to live with his family forawhile.  Shit-eating grins while theyslowly took over his house, like they were doing him a favor.  All his old things were gone, stored, they said, always managing tolook hurt that he didn’t like their changes. Jess had started a card-making business to “help bring in some money”and now the dining room looked like a paper factory had exploded in it.  She was too tired after all her card-makingto cook anymore, so it was up to Derrick now. Every night it was some frozen dinner in a plastic tray or a greasy bagfrom McDonald’s.  No wonder his pantswere getting tight.   Last week, they’dcelebrated with Chinese take-out after Jess had sold a card to herhairdresser.  A card.  He wondered if the Glenlivet was still in thegarage or if Derrick had found it yet. On her weekly calls, Carol told him he should be grateful, what if hehad been alone?  He settled back andhappily imagined that for awhile.


The doorbell rang.  Hewas in the kitchen, trying to find something to eat that didn’t come out of apackage, but no luck.  He could getaround a little better now.  Derrick andJess had gone to the movies. They claimed they needed a break.  Watching TV and sleeping in was hard work, heguessed.  Oh, and there was thecard-making, of course.  He laughed tohimself, hobbled his way to the front door, opened it.  A middle-aged man stood on the porch, blackhair trimmed neatly around the ears and neck, a flannel shirt. 

“Dan Park,” he said, holding out a hand.  “Sorry to bother you, but we bought the housebehind you last year?  We haven’t metyet.”

He balanced in the door, shook the offered hand. “JoeWebster.  You bought Tom’s oldhouse?  Where’d he go?”

“Alaska, I think.  Tolive with his son or something.  I thinkhe was going to fish.”

He nodded.  “That’s agood house.  I helped Tom put in a furnacea few years back.”   He shifted hisweight, steadied himself against the doorframe. “I’ve been laid up this lastyear.  Pneumonia.  Then I broke my damn leg looking for a bottleof whiskey.”

“That’s terrible.  Didyou find the whiskey?”  Dan laughed.  He decided right there he liked this newneighbor.

“Didn’t even get a swig of it.   I’mhoping it’ll still be there when I get back on my feet.”  He eased himself out the front door, offered Dana seat on a dusty porch chair.

“I came over because we were wanting to replace that oldfence between us,” Dan said.  “I wantedto make sure that was okay with you before we started.”  He pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket,showed him the new design.   It was a cedar fence, six feet, with coppercaps on the posts.

“It’ll be an improvement over that chain link.  Must be twenty years since I put that in,” hesaid.

“There’s the maple that will have to be limbed up on yourside, since the new fence will be taller. I could do that for you.”  Danfolded the paper and slipped it back into his jacket pocket.

It was nice to sit out in the sunshine and talk to someonecapable for awhile.  It almost made himforget the ache in his leg. 

“Let’s go back there and take a look,” he said suddenly,feeling daring.  “I might have to use youfor support though.”

“Glad to.” Dan stood and offered his arm and they made theirslow way around the side of the house. It hadn’t rained for a couple of weeks, the ground was beginning to firmup.  

“Haven’t been out here since last year,” he said andstopped.

He saw the old television set first, flung on its side inthe grass.  Dan had started talking abouthis new lawnmower, how he could come over and mow the lawn for him, now that heknew he was laid up.  He didn’trespond.  The couch was up against thefence, sagging and torn.  Books werestrewn across the yard, spines broken, pages sodden.  The armchairs were leaning against the old TVcupboard in the center of the rose garden. Roses were snapped off, one wasuprooted.  Bags of garbage piled upagainst the house. The entire back yard was strewn with his belongings. 

“Mr. Webster? Are you okay?”

“How long has it been like this?” he asked hoarsely.  But he already knew.  Since the couch came, since the TV and itsplastic altar.  Carol probably didn’teven have a storage unit.

“No wonder you want a new fence,” he said.  Dan’s cheeks darkened a little and he coughedinto his hand. 

“Take me back inside,” he said, shaking. 


The police officer was kind on the phone, but there wasnothing she could do since he’d invited them in, since they’d been there solong.  She took down his complaint and hehung up.  Derrick and Jess came back,chattering about the movie they’d seen. He faked a headache and went to his room.  While the TV droned on in the living room, hemade a few more phone calls.


He waited.  From hisbedroom he could hear the sounds of construction going on behind him, Danbeginning the new fence.  He kept quietabout it, waited until they were distracted to peer through the blinds in thedining room, watch the slow progress. They went out more now that he was improving.  Afternoons at the movies, dinners out, theoccasional trip to the mall.  Heencouraged it, became loose with his gratitude. For Derrick’s birthday, he gave them a weekend away.

“A well-deserved break,” he said and they beamed.  They drove off on a Friday morning.  Derrick honked the horn twice as theyleft.  He waved goodbye from the livingroom window.

The locksmith arrived an hour later. That afternoon threeyoung men drove up in a beat-up van, pulling a utility trailer.  He showed them the house and the back yard,told them what to do.   He stood insideand watched them, the young men going back and forth, their quick muscles, theeasy grace of their effort.  When theywere finished he gave them each an extra 20 dollars and told them to have adrink on him.

He walked carefully to the backyard, saw the checkerboard offlattened yellow grass, the neglected roses, and he felt a little hollow, butalso relieved.  Dan’s new fence was partwayconstructed now.  He could see into hisbackyard, the neat flowerbeds, the patio furniture with its greenumbrella.  He went back inside the stillhouse and lay on his bed, satisfied.

Sunday morning he woke early.  It was a beautiful day, blue sky and picturebook clouds.  Outside he could already hearpeople coming and going, a low hum of voices. He made a cup of instant coffee and limped to the window.  

The TV was gone, as well as the brown couch.  People were milling around, looking through thebox of movies and video games.  Herecognized one of his neighbors hauling away a fake potted plant.  She caught his eye and he raised his coffeecup in greeting.  He watched a car driveup, an elderly woman examine the “FREE! Yes, all of it!” sign by the mailbox. By noon everything was gone but the bin of paper goods and a coupleboxes of clothes.  He’d kept those back,along with a box of personal items. No one had ever said he was an unreasonableman.

He called Carol, told her he’d changed the locks, listenedto her startled panic until she was done. Derrick and Jess returned just before dark, knocked on the door and rangthe bell until his head hurt.  He’d lefta note with their things on the porch. Dan thought he’d be better off not talking to them today.  Give them time to cool down, he said.   Thatwas fine with him.  When they’d finallyslunk off for the night he called Dan, invited him over. 

The emptiness of the house cheered him.  Beside his bedroom, the only furniture leftwas the dining room table, which they hadn’t bothered to replace.  When Dan arrived he offered him a seat, tookout two glasses.

“Found that bottle of Glenlivet,” he said.  He’d left the lights off and pulled the blinds open.  When Dan held up his glass to drink, the light from the streetlamp filtered softly through it, turned the liquid inside from amber to gold.  He was exhausted, and his leg was aching, but he hadn’t felt this good in a very long time.


There’s a nice littlehouse down the road, yellow with white trim, a neatly fenced yard that used to containan old black lab.  Something happened onenight.  When we drove by in the morning,the contents of the house had appeared on the lawn.  Bookcases, chairs, boxes, Rubbermaidcontainers, a lamp, a dresser.  We drovepast for a week wondering what the people inside were dealing with:  a plumbing leak?  A hole in the roof?  Another week went by and it began torain.  The contents of the yard took on asodden and abandoned look.  Someone put outa couple of limp tarps, but it was all haphazard: the plastic tubs under thetarp, the rocking chair left unprotected.

That was three years ago.  One summer, someone carved a circle in the center of the detritus and set up some plastic Adirondack chairs, a little retreat, as it were, in the center of the chaos.  I’ve never seen an actual person in the chairs.  I’ve never seen an actual person outside at all.  But if you drive by in the evening, you can see inside the house.  There’s a big tv, the occasional silhouette of a head on a couch, the lights glimmering friendly, as if the rotting world on the lawn doesn’t exist at all.

That was the inspiration for this story, a possible answer to the question: why?!

you just need something to eat


Last night I had a dream. I was driving down the country highway that leads to tiny town.  Suddenly I realized the windows were too fogged to see out of, and on top of that, I wasn’t wearing my glasses.  I couldn’t see the road, the signs, the intersections,or anything at all.  I began to panic.  Then, in that strange way of dreams, I woke up on the side of the road, parked at a red light in the city.  Somehow, despite my blindness, I had driven myself 30 miles and arrived in a traffic jam. And I still didn’t have my glasses. Terrified, I found my phone and dialed my husband, explained where I was and what had happened.   Cars were honking, I had to drive, but I was nearly blind.  What was I supposed to do??

“Don’t worry,” he said in a calm voice.  “You just need something to eat.”

I got out of my car (dream-world, remember), went into a store and got some food and ate it.  And he was right.  Suddenly, I was not scared.  I could think.  I could see!  And I drove myself home

We laughed when I told him about the dream later that day, but I’m always astounded at the psyche’s ability to reveal its own truth.  Even though I wasn’t recognizing it yet, I’m in a time of change, pushing into new personal territory. Of course I’m a little anxious, stressed, and scared.  Leave it to my practical husband to know what will help.


Recently, Anna Lovind wrote about the myth of the “fearless” artist.  The (masculine-dominant) idea that we should harness fear and ride it like a bull into our own creative genius.  What if, she suggests, instead of shaming ourselves into action, we recognize the message in the fear and tend to the need beneath it?  I love this insight.  What if we mothered our selves, recognized that sometimes all we need is an apple and a nap to give us the strength we need to face the next task?  

Unfortunately, we don’t live in a world that values nurturing except in lip service and product advertisement (“You deserve a break today!").   Taking the time to nurture the self (or anyone) almost always registers to us as weakness and time-wasting because our world demands visible productivity, clock-watching, schedule-keeping, busyness, and monetary reward.  We have to decide to do this on our own and recognize it as an integral part of our creative and intellectual process.

People who succeed at their goals are the people who find the way through.  But that doesn’t mean we have to push and shove and wreck ourselves.   We can still get there with intention and gentleness and maybe, at the end, we'll have kept both our dreams and our wholeness. 

I know I’ve got a long drive ahead through unknown territory, so I’m going to put my effort where my mouth is and sleep an extra half hour. Eat something from the earth.  Show up on the yoga mat. Stretch. Get outside. Back off the wine and drink more water. Turn off the internet. Wear thick socks. Stay warm. Breathe. You?

it might help to be simple


The last couple of days I've given myself the outrageous pleasure of skipping the "usual order of things" and spending the first hour or two of the morning wrapped in a blanket, feet up, little electric fire going, tea in hand, reading. The rest of the house occupants are off to work or university so the house is deliciously quiet and still. This morning I was skimming through William Stafford's books on writing. I like his lack of pretentiousness. Ditch the need to seem intellectual, he says (in not so many words.) Just write out of your own place, out of your own expertise. I long ago decided that was the only way forward for me, I haven't any pedigree or experience that would enable me to write otherwise. My stories are mainly set in the Northwest, about the kind of people I grew up with, working class people. Some of them are curious and complicated, some of them stubborn, vicious, or unreasonably good. They're just ordinary people with ordinary encounters. You don't need to be an academic, or a diplomat, a scientist, or an artist to encounter betrayal, desire, failure, limits, freedom or forgiveness. All of these are readily mined from ordinary lives. But the world is a kind of grasping, upward thrusting place, and so I sometimes need to remind myself that I have stories worth sharing, that just because my place and my expertise lack a certain amount of cachet, it is still my own, and worth speaking from.

One of my Franciscan directives this year is "simplicity," and I've been thinking how much that word should really be tied to "humility." After all, it's often pride that drives us to own more, achieve more, do more. There's a certain lack of hubris required to be content with the old shoes, the good-enough house, the job title that sparks no one's interest. Saying no - to purchases/commitments/experiences/titles - requires a deep contentment and assurance that you are right where you need to be.

"It might help to be simple, and to listen," says Stafford in his marvelously spare way.


Today I have come to the coffee shop to write. Sometimes I need to shake myself awake, watch the people come in and out, hear snippets of real life conversations. Beside me a group of men are discussing tools - power saw, screwdriver, wrench - in absorbed detail. Behind me, a women's group is discovering self-comforting revelations in their well-used bibles. Strohl's Great Dramatic Sonata is playing in my headphones, but I am not interested in drowning everything out. I am training myself to be hardier, to write in a multitude of environments, under different kinds of pressure. More than that, I have come to watch and learn, for it is people who teach me to write, who teach me the tricks of conversation and mood, the gestures and tics that give characters life.

Novelist Elena Ferrante tells us that a writer's talent

...acts like a fishing net that captures daily experiences, holds them together imaginatively, and connects them to fundamental questions about the human condition.

Elena Ferrante

I love this image, for in my mind I see a morning river, a single boat, the casting of a glistening net over the rocking waves, the grateful gathering in of whatever has come along.


"You must revise your life," Stafford told aspiring poets (a take on Rilke's line), and I can feel this with some urgency. It's been a couple of years since I finished my first novel. It hasn't found a publisher yet, but I am not discouraged about that. The longer I write, the more I realize how many novels I will need to write before I come anywhere near to mastery. I want to strip my days down to only what is necessary for this growing, this maturing; take off the layers so I can get right down to the art. Lately, that urgency has been accompanied by the shimmer of fear. There are walled off places within myself, there are things to know about myself that I have yet to uncover.


The mood in the coffee shop has shifted with the noon light. The crowd has turned over, leaving a quieter mood, a flurry of tapping fingers as people settle into work. I am hungry for more than coffee, so soon I'll go home to the quiet and make my lunch, start working on the next part of my novel while the laundry spins in the washing machine tub. In this section of the story, I am trying to understand how a good person might make peace with someone who does not know how to love. It is a common problem. Sometimes I sit by the window and think of the people I know, the ways they have chosen to face that kind of thing, the ways they didn't. Just before I wrote this out, one of the women behind me said loudly, but with great tenderness,

"After all these years I am just trying to listen to him..."

I've collected this in my net, her words, her tone, and I will add it to all the other things I am just now learning to know.

a franciscan year


I can't seem to shake off the monastics.  I'm continually drawn to their disciplined rhythms and focused intention in attempting to make an outer life that reflects their inner lives.  A couple of years ago I came across the Third Order Franciscans - an Episcopalian order that commits to live by Franciscan principles in their every day lives.  I love their aims of love and simplicity.  Looking over their Rule (guidelines for committed living) again this last month, I realized it could provide a container, of sorts, for the various threads I want to pursue in this coming year.

The last few years I've been looking for ways to integrate financial discipline with my concern for our (personal) middle-class disconnect - the distance between my pursuit of comfort and my neighbors' daily need, the condition of the planet, the growing class disparity in America, the mental and spiritual plague of consumerism, etc.  I've tried various ways of tackling this, but the Franciscans brought it all together for me:

"Saint Francis...[desired] that all barriers set up by privilege based on wealth should be overcome by love. [...] we avoid luxury and waste, and regard our possessions as being held in trust for God. Personal spending is limited to what is necessary for our health and well-being and that of our dependents. We aim to stay free from all attachment to wealth, keeping ourselves constantly aware of the poverty in the world and its claim on us. We are concerned more for the generosity that gives all, rather than the value of poverty in itself.""Acknowledging that everything belongs to God, we seek to use his gifts wisely and to be good stewards of this fragile earth, never destroying or wasting what God has made. We provide the things necessary for ourselves and our families without demanding luxuries. We seek never to forget the needs of others."

The Rule for the Third Order encompasses several areas other than just finances, but they all braid together to support and enable each other.  I think this is what I've been missing, a cohesive vision that addresses all the various aspects of how we make decisions and what motivates us.  This is a brief outline of the Rule (found here):

The Holy EucharistPenitencePersonal PrayerSelf-DenialRetreatStudySimplicity of LivingWorkObedience

I've written some guidelines for myself that fall into each of these categories (although not always exactly as they are meant for actual members of the Order).  They include praying the Divine Hours 3x daily (as able), periods of silence each day, reducing social media interaction to 1 hour/day (sounds like plenty, but it goes very fast between posting and answering comments, etc.), a no-shopping year, and regular hospitality.   I'm calling it my Franciscan year, and while I know it will be a challenge, I also feel a sense of calling and peace.

"Humility, love, and joy are the three notes which mark the lives of Tertiaries." (Third Order members)

In this context, it does not seem burdensome to keep a routine of prayer or create space for silence or refuse to buy.  It seems like opening a door and entering into the rhythm of the real world, where we work and yearn and make space for each other instead of mindlessly pursuing our own comfort and pleasure.  I'm entering the new year with a lot of peace and assurance.


Since I know some people will have questions about what our no-shopping year will look like, I'll offer a brief outline of our plan here. Please remember, this is a journey toward integrity, not a competition about resources or stewardship.

2019 No-shopping Year.We will not shop/order/buy anything outside of the following:

  1. Regular household expenses. (I have reduced our food budget slightly but this is a broad category overall and we have talked through what we need and what we can go without.)

  2. Already scheduled home maintenance projects (this includes building a pole barn and some subsequent landscaping.)

  3. Seeds/supplies for a small garden.

  4. Replacing any necessary items that break or are lost.

  5. Gifts for others (reduced budget).

  6. Books necessary for work.

I'm sure there will be exceptions to these guidelines, because that's the way it goes in a large, busy family, but we do have a way to evaluate those needs as they arise.  Mostly it involves talking, waiting, and considering whether it complies with our commitment to simplicity.  I'm so looking forward to using what we have, making do, and learning new ways to meet needs.

As always, I love to hear your thoughts. 

I'll leave you with this version of St Francis' famous prayer for peace: 

christmas, in twelve days


It's the middle of the third week of Advent and despite my well laid plans, I am as unprepared for Christmas as I've ever been.  This weekend we'll get our tree.  (One advantage to waiting this long is the tree farms usually start discounting their trees; the biggest, most perfect ones are picked over, but we live in a hobbity kind of house anyway and we just want something small and natural looking, so it works in our favor.)  After a month of everyone else's lights and decorations, I'm so looking forward to the arrival of Christmas at our house!Christmas lasts for twelve days, from the 25th of December through Epiphany, on January the 6th.  There are several saint's days in that span and lots of different ways to celebrate, but I promised to share a bit of what we do here.  Honestly, it's nothing dramatic.  So much of the excitement of Christmas is simply the build up that comes through the waiting of Advent.We usually attend a church service on Christmas Eve, then wake up Christmas morning and celebrate in the usual way with gifts (if there are any) and breakfast and spending the day with family.The 26th is St Stephen's Day (or Boxing Day).  "Boxing" refers to an old English custom of masters filling the banks or "boxes" of apprentices with monetary gifts.  It's a day to think of charitable giving.  You could box up some things to donate or open a piggy bank to make a donation.  We'll make sure to play "Good King Wenceslaus" that night and talk over our giving goals for the next year.The 27th is St John the Evangelist's Day.  Tradition says he was served poisoned wine and survived!  We'll make mulled wine that day. (I love St. John's Day!)  You can mull apple cider instead, for nondrinkers and children.

Gluhwein recipe:1 bottle cheap red wine3/4 c water1/2 c honey or sugar2 cinnamon sticks1 orange10 cloves2 star anise (optional)Orange liquer, brandy or rum (optional)Put water in pan to boil. Add honey or sugar until dissolved.  Put the cloves in the orange, slice it into halves, squeeze in the juice and then put the squeezed halves in.  Add cinnamon and anise.  Let simmer for ten minutes or until it begins to thicken a little.  Pour in the wine, heat gently.  DON'T BOIL.  Remove peels, cinnamon and anise.  Serve in mugs with an optional shot of liquor.

The 28th is the Feast of the Holy Innocents.  Honestly, by this time, I'm ready to quit observing things for a few days, so I don't plan anything big for this.  Gertrud Mueller Nelson celebrates children in some way on this day and I think it's a good time to bless your children - or children you know - with an actual blessing, or at least by telling them you love them.

A Celtic children's blessing:Grow gently, (name of child),in love of God.We bless you,and prayChrist be near you,now and each hourof your life.

My husband's company closes down for the week between Christmas and New Year, so we'll use this time to rest, hike, visit the ocean, do puzzles, etc.   I also like to finish writing the Christmas cards and send them out and prepare the new calendars and journals for the upcoming year.xmaslanterns2We celebrate New Year's Eve/Day pretty quietly.  We sometimes gather with friends or family, sometimes stay home.  Almost always though, we write out plans and hopes for the next year.January 5th is Twelfth Night.  There are a lot of fun traditions for Twelfth Night parties.  We don't usually invite people over, but we do make a cake and hide a bean inside.  The person who receives the bean in their slice of cake gets to be the King/Queen for the night (if you make a paper crown and find a scepter for them, all the better) and choose when to have more mulled wine, what movie to watch or game to play, etc.  This is also a traditional time to pack up the tree and put away the decorations. (Except for the creche!  The wise men are just arriving to meet the newborn King!)January 6th is Epiphany.  Depending on how you count, technically the 13th day after Christmas, but it's the day when the light of Christ is revealed to the world (the Magi have arrived!)  Some families save their gifts until this day.  Personally, I like to have the Christmas decorations put away the night before so that this day feels light and clean and fresh.   Apparently, I just discovered, in Ireland, this is also called "Women's Christmas" because all the work of celebrating is done and women can get together for high tea (with wine!) I mean...yes! I may just invite some ladies over and celebrate that day!Hope that gives you some ideas for an easy, beautiful Christmas celebration!  I'd love to hear how you will celebrate these twelve days!Merry Christmas, friends!tonia