For the Love of Santa

My mother had her share of lucid moments here and there during the thirteen years of her illness. While the rest of the year she remained confined to bed, at holiday time she did her best to rally for a day or two to show me the beautiful woman beneath all the surface strife.

One of her shining moments was the day she told me the truth about Santa Claus. We were in the

living room at 16 Wilbury Place in Buffalo, New York. The stockings still hung over the brick fireplace and a Douglas Fir tree glistened in the front alcove with too many strands of silver tinsel tossed in random fashion by my own ambitious hands. The tree proudly displayed our old handed down glass ornaments that glowed in the light of an old-fashioned string of screw-in colored light bulbs. Douglas Firs were the cheapest tree at that time, but boy did they smell good!

A handful of my friends considered themselves on the cusp of adulthood, too grown up to deal in childish ways of years past while I still maintained a relationship with my dear conspirator in the occupation of love, Santa Claus. I’d captured him in my heart and he would have to be wrangled away or remain there forever.

Several of those so-called friends elevated themselves by making fun of the fact that I had written to the Man in Red, asked for and received yet another doll from the Jolly Old Elf at the vulnerable age of thirteen. Well aimed hits on my personhood, such as “Only babies ask Santa for dolls,” plagued my sense of self-esteem and I did not appreciate the accusations. Peyton Place had nothing over the scandal on Wilbury Place.

Wise woman to her core, Mom felt my rising angst on the topic of Santa and she knew I would no sooner give up dolls than say goodbye to the benevolent elf of the North Pole. Dolls were my family, my only siblings, and my practice children and I loved them dearly. Looking forward to my correspondence with Santa each year got me through the long days of my mother’s illness. In spite of her condition, Mom desperately wanted to relieve the pain of my transition from child to pre-adult, no easy task and she wasn't about to take Santa away from me.

I imagine she intuited that I was dealing with Santa’s existence in my own way, that I already knew in my heart of hearts that our chimney would never see one black boot or red velvet suit or beard white as snow. Mom prevailed. She sat down in the rocker nearest the tree where I sat on the floor studying the disarray of unwrapped gifts displayed at its base a few days after Christmas.

“Robin, you know what your friend’s say about babies being the only ones to ask Santa for dolls?” she asked.

“Yes.” I answered, half expecting her to say the day had come for me to grow up.

“Well, first of all if they’re referring to YOU, they’re wrong. You are NOT a baby!”

My ears were open.

“You are my beautiful daughter and I’m so proud of you and everything you do.  And…I know how much you love your dolls.”

Her words pricked holes in my tear ducts with the knowledge that she felt guilty for not having produced a sibling for me to grow up with.

“You know who Santa is don’t you?”

I sat frozen in silence, staring down at the new Penny Brite doll among Christmas boxes of shirts, slippers, and games, my gaze blurred with tears.

“Santa isn’t a person,” she said. “Santa is the Spirit of Christmas. He represents generosity. He is everything good and kind and loving that lives inside of you and all who open their hearts to know him. Santa is something you can believe in for the rest of your life and I hope you do.”

A couple of tears escaped and I scrambled up to wrap my arms around her, my sensitive, thoughtful Santa Mom.

“One more thing,” she said. Mom got up and disappeared around the corner to my Dad’s study for a few seconds. She returned with a shoebox-sized box wrapped in candy-stripe paper topped with a big red bow and handed it to me. “I know Christmas was a few days ago but this is special from me to you.”

True to the little perfectionist I was fast becoming, I unwrapped the package as if lightening would strike if I tore one tiny corner of the paper. My chest swelled with sunshine when I saw the sweet baby doll swaddled in a white lacy “Christening” dress, matching bonnet, and booties.

“I picked this one because she’s soft and looks like a real baby. I wish I could give you a brother or sister but it’s not happening. For now, she can be your baby sister.”

The doll was more than special. Yes, she had the soft look of a just born infant and she smelled delicious like all new dolls just out of the box, but much more astonishing was the fact that my mother had gotten out of bed and had gone to a store to pick out the doll herself. Mom hadn’t done trips to stores for anything in years.

“I love her Mom. I’ll take good care of her.  And I love you!”

The baby doll wore the proper sacramental attire, but I’d been the one baptized into a new phase of life by someone whose wisdom was never fully recognized. Mom’s Santa bore little resemblance to the Santa of magazine advertisements and department stores. Her adaptation might have held a vague shadow of similarity to the early St. Nicholas or Thomas Nast’s Santa, the saint’s namesake, but in truth this spirit was my mother’s construct born out of her love for me.

As a rookie teen I could have been angry about the whole charade; the milk and cookies for the big guy and carrots for Rudolph, the trips to department store Santas, the letters “To Santa,” the elves, flying reindeer, and presents “From Santa,” the collusion with other Santa espousing parents. But I wasn’t angry. It was impossible. I loved the ritual that began every year with an advent calendar on December first.

By telling me her version of Santa, Mom trusted I would sort through the whole thing and sort I did. What would I do without a long string that stretches back in time and connects me to my childhood wonder - wonder that is palpable in the children’s stories I write and the fascination I have with Nature? Where would I be without a jolly “Ho, ho, ho” once in a while far beyond the season of Santa? Where would any of us be without Santa’s good humor? Imagination. No one can tap into imagination if you don’t carry an image in your mind of reindeer that can fly and elves that build millions of toys by hand, on request, in less than a year. Imagination will fail you if men in red suits with bellies like bowls of jelly can’t slip easily down slender chimneys or drive a sleigh through the starlit sky and deliver those millions of elf-built toys to children around the world in one night in all kinds of weather.

Mom knew I would need all of what I gained from the childhood fantasy that is Santa Claus as I entered the oftentimes too serious journey toward what we call adult. She knew I would need the hope and the laughter that Santa provides so I could endure the days when things don’t go the way I want them to. She knew the importance of embodying wonder, the miracles, and suspension of disbelief that Santa’s spirit offers. For all Mom’s wisdom and the beauty she rendered by asking me to BELIEVE as a tiny tot and a budding adult, I am grateful.

From a heart that still holds tight to the magic of Santa, may you capture your own Spirit of Christmas and never ever let it go. Merry Christmas!

Worldwide Day of Giving

Today is "Worldwide Day of Giving" and I want to give you something.
  On the occasion of my wedding, a very long time ago, my Dad gave me the greatest wisdom that still holds true. To add emphasis to the sincerity and sacredness of our last one-on-one meeting before my life transition, he drove 45 minutes to join me on my work lunch break one week before the big day. Even before he uttered a word I remember feeling so touched and I sensed something coming that I knew I’d cherish for a lifetime.
  As was his style, he wanted to provide the most beautiful setting to deliver the message he wanted to get across to my still maturing spirit. He drove me to the town park and there on a park bench, surrounded by tall oak sentinels and the bright hues of annual and perennial plantings, he talked about the importance of communication and how to do it effectively. A light breeze whispered around us, enfolding us in a magical bubble, and Dad concluded with, “Always communicate. Good communication is the key to a good life. Good relationship.” We stood to face each other. He kissed me on the forehead, hugged me in such a way that I can still feel it. He stood back with his hands on my shoulders and looked into my eyes, my soul. “See you next Saturday.”
  The following week I sat wearing a long white dress clinging to a bouquet of silk flowers that quivered with my nervousness. My Dad walked into the room full to the brim with stoic emotion that might have spilled over into tears if he said too much. In silence, he sat down and removed the white ballet slipper from my foot, dropped a penny inside. “For good fortune,” he managed to push out between his trembling lips. In Cinderella-like fashion, he tucked my foot back into the slipper.
  He stared into my eyes with such love I felt it rush through my body and travel to the farthest reaches of my being. He took my hands in his, cradling them and holding the gaze. A tear stood ready to fall in the corner of each of both his and my eyes and once more he urged “Communicate.”
  Sixteen years later that marriage broke into irreparable pieces due to dysfunctional, often non-existent communication. A few shards still stick here and there in the scars that formed in my heart from that loss. I imagine that your heart bears similar scars. Scars that resulted from communication that missed its mark or silence that kept you or a loved one from fully expressing a hurt or a need or a question left simmering in your mind. Scars that formed as a result of being misunderstood with no door left open, no recourse for a conversation that might have healed the rift.
  The only thing that stands between you and me and a healing is fear. Fear of vulnerability. Fear of emoting. Fear of being rejected. Fear of being in the wrong. Fear of further misunderstanding. Fear – a senseless wall and an illusion.
  Here on the internet we try and sometimes manage to hit the bulls-eye. Other times we try and miss, try and fail every day via social media, email, and whatever other means keeps us from looking each other in the eyes and feeling the presence of each other. We want that communication with the desperation of a desert wanderer in search of water. We are parched, longing to be understood and loved and not quite getting there.
  So, on this "Worldwide Day of Giving" I give you communication and my vulnerability. But I can only give it to you if you receive it and give it back. If you have ever or will ever feel misunderstood by me, please let me know. If you think I have hurt you in some way, tell me and let’s talk about it in person over a cup of something warm and soothing. Even in face to face conversation two people can misunderstand each other. We make up stories and judgments in our heads about others hundreds of times a week, much based on our own personal history.
  The secret is in leaving fear behind and dropping down into your vulnerable heart and saying, “I didn’t quite get that. Could you explain further?” or “I really want to understand you. Please tell me more.” Realize that I may have misspoken because I’m a fumbling human and leave room for apology and forgiveness. Or you may have projected onto me the hurt you still unconsciously feel from an old childhood wound. I’ve been there and understand and will do my very best to listen.
  Most of our misunderstandings are big huge ginormous mistakes that can be made right. Stick with me through the dark night and I’ll stick with you. May we come to a completion where we can give each other a hug in the light of day, having moved toward an even deeper, more intimate relationship.

Much Love,
Robin

Summer Memories Conclusion

  It was around this time of year when I first expressed my teen ideal to become an artist, to write and illustrate children’s books. When the school guidance counselor poked discouraging jabs at my dream, the wife of my father’s boss stepped in and said, “If that’s what you want to do, you can do it!” The summer of 1972 she came to look at my portfolio and said she had a friend who might be able to help patch up the holes in my dream. Her friend happened to be a dean at the University of Arizona. An interview secured my acceptance into their art program. Though life’s twists and turns took me in a different direction I eventually got around to writing and illustrating my first children’s book “Feather Gifts for All Ages" and I’ve never forgotten the support of those kind women.
  Upon my return from the past to the present, along the tiny spirit road of that small rock I held in my hand, I realized there have been so many more supportive people along this life journey who said, “You can do it.” Mrs. Blatchford gave me sewing lessons after school when my sewing teacher ignored my abilities. Mrs. English pointed me toward my first fulfilling work in a fabric store; sewing being second only to art on my love-to-do list. Members of my beloved storytelling guild who continue to nurture my storytelling and stage presence. Friends, teachers, ministers, lawyers, team mates, co-workers, therapists, and strangers all appeared at just the right time to encircle me with love and encouraging words, to shepherd me onward when I felt lost. Each in their own way let me know I didn’t have to hide behind masks, costumes, or a stage persona. I could step into my own character and feel alive and confident, comfortable in my own skin.
  It’s those extra I love yous I still receive that help me relax when my head is exploding with adult details and confusion. It is a loved one sitting in silence and holding my hand when I’m blinded to the road ahead that helps me know the clouds will clear soon enough. It is a friend pointing to the stars and reminding me they are not so far away that I can’t reach for them that keeps me looking up and toward my dreams. I hope these Summer Memories stories have reawakened some of your dreams and stirred some good memories. Have a great start to your summer, the time of growth and ripening creativity! Breathe in the beauty of this day, your day, and the Earth that supports you! Wishing you well in it!

Love, Robin

The Art of Acceptance

  As I send out my prayers and love to all people who face the wrath of Hurricane Matthew, a thought occurred to me that is in some way comforting. I ask all who read this to put things into perspective and please read to the end for the full message. Natural disasters and the associated damage and death tolls have been a fact of life since the beginning of time. When we watch the news we forget this reality because devastation and fear mongering sells. Because it is happening NOW in our lifetime, we realize it could happen to us. We don’t like knowing we are vulnerable and one day we will die somehow, some way.

  We forget that we are also SURVIVORS. We get up each morning in spite of it all as we have for millenia. We grieve. We restore. We move on.

  YES it is sad that one precious life is cut short – someone’s mother or sister or child. AND what is the best thing we can do to honor those lost lives? I say it is to LIVE each day to the fullest – days they might have wished they could enjoy. Revere the rising and setting sun, the trees, the lakes, the oceans. Glory in the gentle breeze against your skin. Go out and jump in puddles in the middle of a rainstorm. Play, dance, sing, create, and have hope like it’s going out of style! Savor the wholesome variety of foods that are available to you each and every day. Be thankful for the home that shelters you as best it can and the clothing that protects you from the elements. Appreciate the wild creatures who grace our planet and the domestic furred friends who add so much joy and pleasure to your days.   Above all, offer gratitude for the life you have been given, CHERISH those who walk beside you, and let’s work TOGETHER to care for and preserve OUR Mother Earth for generations to come. We don’t have total control, and there IS A LOT WE CAN DO!

  As you listen to the tallies of today’s damage and loss and any that occurs in the future, realize how our populations have grown exponentially through the centuries. Imagine how devastating it was to lose 50,000 people in 365CE when there were far fewer people on the earth. Here is just a fraction of what has occurred since then, not to mention deaths that occurred in wars and hate crimes:

January 12, 2010 - A powerful earthquake destroyed much of Haiti and killed over 200,000 people.

1887 - The Huang Ho River flooded and killed 900,000.

August 26, 1883 - The island volcano Krakatoa, Indonesia erupted and killed 36,000.

October 5, 1864 - Calcutta, India denuded by a cyclone that killed 70,000.

November 1, 1755 - An earthquake in Lisbon, Portugal killed 70,000. Resulting heavy damage from ensuing fires and tsunami flooding in Morocco killed nearly 250,000 people.

March 11, 1669 - Mt. Etna, Sicily erupted killing 15,000. On March 25 it erupted again destroying Nicolosi and killing 20,000 more.

Feb 2 1556 - Worst earthquake in history Shangxi Province, China killing 830,000.

July 21, 365 CE - An earthquake leveled the Egyptian Port of Alexandria killing an estimated 50,000 people.

Please don’t buy what the fear-mongers are selling. You’ve been given a precious life and other precious lives to go with you on the journey. You have the choice to spend your gift wisely with love and joy as your focus OR to sit under a dark cloud of worry about things out of your control. I wish you peace and beauty and love, Robin

"Hope" is the thing with feathers—
That perches in the soul—
And sings the tune without the words—
And never stops—at all—

And sweetest—in the Gale—is heard—
And sore must be the storm—
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm—

I've heard it in the chillest land—
And on the strangest Sea—
Yet, never, in Extremity,
It asked a crumb—of Me.

Emily Dickinson

So lost are we on that strange Sea, when fear rages and wracks our vessel against any hope of saving ourselves. I’ve been saddened lately as I see so many who are in fear, forgetting the little “bird” that stays with its owner and never asks for anything in return. The storm becomes less threatening and the music resumes only when we open the doors to the cage and let the sweet bird out to warm us, often for the first time in our lives. To further demonstrate how fear is our greatest adversary, I’ve taken the liberty of using Miss Dickinson’s poem as the framework for it’s opposite:

“Fear” is the thing with anchors,

That keeps us in our place,

And steals our native melody,

And hides us from all grace.

And darkest in the Gale is heard,

That rainbows bring the Light,

And raise our spirits, set us free,

So we crush what’s warm and bright.

Anchors will surely pull you down,

Just as you start to float,

Always, forever in Extreme,

They hunger to sink your boat.

The anchor of fear kept me at bay for the better part of my life, yet so often did the small bird of hope sing softly in my ear. I was good at playing small and scared and unworthy, not because I wanted it that way, but rather because I’d been taught from an early age that these things were true and on many levels I believed it. It was drilled into me that my needs, wants, and hopes were either ridiculous, non-existent, or unimportant. This happens to all of us in varying degrees when the adults in our world, who have never seen themselves as completely worthy and whole, continue to pass down the hurt and pain in unconscious, sometimes subtle ways. I challenge anyone who tells me that it can’t be stopped, that the chain can’t be broken, the bird freed…

For 22 years I lived in a relationship that was lop-sided. I thought it was all up to me to set things in balance. And so I lived without intimacy, affection, sex, the children I so wished to birth and raise, or even a fulfilling job.

At the time I thought it was only my husband that kept me in the proverbial pumpkin shell. I kept up a good front with family and friends and we appeared on the outside to be a long-standing, happy couple. The anchor of fear grew heavier and heavier and the little bird grew larger and sang louder. Hope had been patient for so long, until one day she began to peck and claw at the cage bars. My eyes and heart finally opened to the fact that I was scared out of my mind and afraid to face life.

The bird had outgrown the cage and she knew that if she didn’t fly soon her feathers would fall out and the cage doors would be forever rusted shut. She commenced to slashing at the anchor rope with her small but determined beak.

Instead of accepting a role that made someone else comfortable and pretending to be happy, I started doing things that called to my heart. Instead of wishing I could write like John Boy Walton or Emily Dickinson, or Elizabeth Barrett Browning, I started to BELIEVE I could. Instead of propagating the lie that my husband told me (literally) – that I was just “arm candy” and had no value beyond my teenaged occupation at Burger King – I put complete trust in God and myself and found a rewarding part-time job that supported me through training for a career that called to my heart. I reached down into the vast recesses of Robin and like pulling a rabbit out of a hat, started radiating my true, vibrant self and all the inner beauty that had been there all along. I left behind the superficial friends of my feigned life and found real friends; friends who lifted, supported, cheered, and offered spiritual tools for advancing my authentic self while repealing the lies and feelings of hopelessness.

This sweet, joyful, brilliant, shining bird appeared mostly as a loathsome monster to my husband. He worked desperately to put it back in the cage. His put-downs escalated until for one brief, encouraging moment, the bird rested on his shoulder. There was a glimmer of light in his eyes and the tenderness he once knew. But Fear was too strong – that he could not sustain a self-assured wife - that some things would have to change. With fire in his voice he declared that he liked things the way they had once been and there was no room for the new “me” who welcomed music, life…and birds.

It was difficult at first, weathering the storm that swirled around the cage. Many times I wanted to creep back inside where I once convinced myself it was safe. But the door had been opened. I liked my new self and the happy feelings that urged me further away from my inner confinement. It was startling and remarkable to experience the expanse and breadth of my wings!

Sometimes, on rare occasions, I still want to crawl back into some protective cage when storms hit. But I won’t…I can’t. To anyone who has caught even a glimpse of this rare bird called Hope, I invite you to let her perch a bit longer. Let her sing you a song that transforms wishes into realities. Hear her music rise above the din of the tempest of fear. Though you ache, let the music pull you from your melancholic cage into the dance of freedom. In that dance, allow the notes to fill your heart with joy and may you be ever warmed by your closer alignment with the Sun!