Glory Cloak

"A little kingdom I possess, where thoughts and feelings dwell; And very hard the task I find of governing it well. " Louisa May Alcott

Has anyone ever come into your life in the nick of time? A bright spot, completely unforeseen. This happens to me regularly. I find inspiration and guidance from the experiences and words of all sorts of people. They give me courage and help me in the inevitable course corrections. Tonight I found kinship in Lousia May Alcott. Unexpected, certainly. I watched a wonderful adaptation of her life taken directly from her letters and journals. There was so much going on in her head, so many thoughts and passions and wit. She struggled hard on many fronts, but always rallied. But she was blessed with a circle of people who inspired and encouraged her. Her mother once made her a cloak, named "the glory cloak" to aid her in her struggle with the manuscript Moods. Louisa was told to wrap it tight around her and the words and stories would most certainly come. She wore that cloak and her book was published, as well as many thereafter.

Her mother was inspired and knew what to give her daughter in her moment of hesitation and fear. Not all glory cloaks are tangible, but I have been wrapped tight in the intangible kind many times over. Even tonight, I felt the encouraging hand of a woman long gone. I think I need to read Ms. Alcott's letters and journals; I may have found yet another friend.

Homesick Holiday

I have avoided a holiday post of sorts; the reasons are not essential. Tonight, my family and I worked on decorating our Christmas tree. The white lights were a hassle. My littlest one kept climbing under the tree while my son was a caped crusader thanks to a handy tree skirt. Old newspaper littered the floor and lines of dead lights lay in a tangled mess. But I was busy fighting off some introspection while I put up ornaments from when I was 4 or 5 years old -- a gold ornament from 1978 from my grandma and 3 ballerinas with net tutus. The truth is, Christmas makes me homesick. Is that awful? Homesick not so much for a place, but for people. My grandma and her bowl of red and green ribbon candy. Our Christmas Eve drive into Boston as a family. To my brother, as a small boy, every plane that left Logan Airport was Santa and his sleigh. And he could sing all of Bing Crosby's "Christmas in Killarney" complete with the Irish accent. I remember our Disney blanket that covered the entrance into the living room (and thereby the tree) - tacked tight to the door frame every 5 inches or so. We were not allowed to even see the tree until after a warm breakfast was eaten and pictures had been taken. Torture at the time, but happy memories now.

Anyhow, tonight while my little tribe of hooligans put up their ornaments, Judy Garland's song "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas" came on. There is something about Judy Garland's voice that breaks my heart a bit. I just listened and, for a few moments, her song captured in both emotion and words some of the feelings I've had this last month or so. The original lyrics, first sung by Judy, have a melancholy aftertaste to them. It was Frank Sinatra that came along and altered them in preference for something all bright, all happy. I could try to say more, but the words aren't coming very easily lately and Judy can sing it so much better. Suffice to say, dear family and friends, past and present, you are in my thoughts this Christmas.

Tell Me A Story

My husband and I approach music very differently. He listens for the intricate riffs, the melody, the improvisation. I, on the other hand, am always listening for the story. Sadly, I have quite a bit of gray matter devoted to useless lyrics, except for Simon & Garfunkel. They are never useless. This pre-occupation with story goes far beyond lyrics and pretty much merges into every aspect of my life. For instance, when I get to heaven, I will kindly ask to see the Bible containing all the fascinating accounts and stories recorded by the females. It is sure to be quite the read.

Recently, I came across the New York Public Libraries Digital Gallery. Quite the gem. Anyhow, I became sucked into their trove of old photos. Look at them and tell me that each face doesn't beg to tell a story. Real people abuzz with thoughts, energy, hang-ups. Which brings me to another bit of lyric, a true classic. Remember the tune?

There are places I remember

All my life, though some have changed,
Some forever, not for better,
Some have gone and some remain.
All these places had their moments,
With lovers and friends I still can recall,
Some are dead and some are living,
In my life I've loved them all.