Monika Basile's Blog: Confessions of a Bleeding Heart, page 10
December 14, 2010
Christmas Catastrophes and Sneaky baby Jesus
I have never had what would be called a “beautiful” Christmas tree. I think it would be more accurately called a “Christmas Catastrophe in a wobbly stand—with lights.”
I know the perfectionists out there are cringing as they picture the visual of it. I come from a long line of perfect trees and have never been able to create one of my own. Not that I haven’t tried—it just never works out that way.
Christmas years ago, my first truly in an adult world, I had a Charlie Brown tree with missing branches and I made the ornaments all myself. I strung popcorn for hours (because wasn’t that supposed to be fun and no one ever told me it took HOURS to do it) only to have the dog eat most of it off the tree. It was also when I learned tinsel on a tree is not a good thing to have when you have animals—they like to eat it. And how I realized this was by chasing the darn dog through the house with paper towels trying to catch the sparkly dingle berry dangling from her butt when she came in from outside.
I have always let the children decorate the tree because they enjoyed it so much. Many years there were a hundred blue balls on three branches in a cluster, GI Joes were tucked inside or hanging from limbs, old beat up cars and torn teddy bears, along with homemade hair cut Barbie adorned my tree. Half eaten candy canes were hung back up as children snuck in a bite or two. It was truly pitiful each year to see the mangling of what our symbol of Christmas became. Yet each year, the crowning glory was set beneath the tree—the Nativity that I had every Christmas since I became an adult. The pieces were constantly being replaced as odd happenings destroyed them one by one—except for cheap clear glass baby Jesus.
We lived in a house with hardwood floors years ago and the dog knocked the tree and smashed every ornament. I replaced them all only to have an unruly child come to call pull it down shattering everything once again in a crescendo of breaking glass. Friends and family donated ornaments, all unbreakable, to the chaos of our holiday that year. Only those dear ornaments were ruined in a flood a few years later.
My last big tree of horror was left at my old house, along with the few treasures I had managed to salvage each year out of our Christmas’s of destruction, when we moved to this apartment. I forgot them and it broke my heart to not have the handmade ornaments of the children that had survived the years. And my Nativity—yes it was pathetic and pitiful—but it was a tradition.
Last year, my sister (let’s just say she is a Christmas freak) felt terrible I had no tree and brought me a tiny tree with tiny ornaments to put up even though I was not in the mood for it. My silly daughter decided to further decorate it with baby pictures of herself which made us laugh. That tree, I gave to one of my client’s, who recently moved on her own so she would have a tree for Christmas. I decided to buy a new tree but had little money to do it.
I decorated our little tree with cheap silver balls and sparkly silver angels and even tinsel for the first time in over twenty years since we have no pets now to eat it—and the bottom of it is bare of the Nativity which bothered me. But Jesus can be a bit sneaky and however much we may forget about him while we celebrate his birthday—he doesn’t forget about us.
I was doing dishes and then went to wipe off the microwave. I had no idea what my hand knocked against. It was the cheap clear glass baby Jesus sitting up on my microwave collecting dust. I have no idea where he came from. I have lived in this apartment almost two years and have no idea how in the world he got here. I put him under my tree. Yes, it looks a bit ridiculous to only have this one piece there, but it is the most important one. Sneaky baby Jesus, you truly are the reason for the season.
Monika M. Basile
I know the perfectionists out there are cringing as they picture the visual of it. I come from a long line of perfect trees and have never been able to create one of my own. Not that I haven’t tried—it just never works out that way.
Christmas years ago, my first truly in an adult world, I had a Charlie Brown tree with missing branches and I made the ornaments all myself. I strung popcorn for hours (because wasn’t that supposed to be fun and no one ever told me it took HOURS to do it) only to have the dog eat most of it off the tree. It was also when I learned tinsel on a tree is not a good thing to have when you have animals—they like to eat it. And how I realized this was by chasing the darn dog through the house with paper towels trying to catch the sparkly dingle berry dangling from her butt when she came in from outside.
I have always let the children decorate the tree because they enjoyed it so much. Many years there were a hundred blue balls on three branches in a cluster, GI Joes were tucked inside or hanging from limbs, old beat up cars and torn teddy bears, along with homemade hair cut Barbie adorned my tree. Half eaten candy canes were hung back up as children snuck in a bite or two. It was truly pitiful each year to see the mangling of what our symbol of Christmas became. Yet each year, the crowning glory was set beneath the tree—the Nativity that I had every Christmas since I became an adult. The pieces were constantly being replaced as odd happenings destroyed them one by one—except for cheap clear glass baby Jesus.
We lived in a house with hardwood floors years ago and the dog knocked the tree and smashed every ornament. I replaced them all only to have an unruly child come to call pull it down shattering everything once again in a crescendo of breaking glass. Friends and family donated ornaments, all unbreakable, to the chaos of our holiday that year. Only those dear ornaments were ruined in a flood a few years later.
My last big tree of horror was left at my old house, along with the few treasures I had managed to salvage each year out of our Christmas’s of destruction, when we moved to this apartment. I forgot them and it broke my heart to not have the handmade ornaments of the children that had survived the years. And my Nativity—yes it was pathetic and pitiful—but it was a tradition.
Last year, my sister (let’s just say she is a Christmas freak) felt terrible I had no tree and brought me a tiny tree with tiny ornaments to put up even though I was not in the mood for it. My silly daughter decided to further decorate it with baby pictures of herself which made us laugh. That tree, I gave to one of my client’s, who recently moved on her own so she would have a tree for Christmas. I decided to buy a new tree but had little money to do it.
I decorated our little tree with cheap silver balls and sparkly silver angels and even tinsel for the first time in over twenty years since we have no pets now to eat it—and the bottom of it is bare of the Nativity which bothered me. But Jesus can be a bit sneaky and however much we may forget about him while we celebrate his birthday—he doesn’t forget about us.
I was doing dishes and then went to wipe off the microwave. I had no idea what my hand knocked against. It was the cheap clear glass baby Jesus sitting up on my microwave collecting dust. I have no idea where he came from. I have lived in this apartment almost two years and have no idea how in the world he got here. I put him under my tree. Yes, it looks a bit ridiculous to only have this one piece there, but it is the most important one. Sneaky baby Jesus, you truly are the reason for the season.
Monika M. Basile
December 10, 2010
a Variety of Bitter Pills
Lord, don’t let me grow bitter…
This is a prayer I have prayed my entire life and I am hoping it will continue to fend off my increased chances to do just that. I seem to be swallowing a variety of bitter pills lately and I begin to fear it will poison my body as well as my soul. I don’t want it to…ever.
I am not a Pollyanna, I used to be, but I am not now. I wonder sometimes, if I am able to balance seeing the real world, my real life—the actual truth of it all and continue to still see the world as something beautiful and adventurous. It was so much easier to do when I wore brightly colored blinders and just kept going and ignored the awful parts of life—even if the awful parts were happening to me.
I have watched people grow bitter throughout my life, and it is something I desperately never wanted to be. I have seen the women, the men and even children with scowls on their faces and a bit of meanness shining through. It scares me and leaves me wondering why some people do become bitter and others keep hoping and trudging through still trying to be a light in the lives of other.
Is it the hope? Is that the difference among us?
I get angry and sad and exhausted, yet—I still have hope that good things and people are intended to and still do enter my life. The more we hope, the more we hang on, the more likelihood it will turn into faith. Faith is the belief that does not rest on logical proof or material evidence. There is no guarantee that my life or the lives of others around me will improve or get easier or suddenly become untroubled. Yet the faith inside of me continues to grow. Is this what pushes out the bitterness that tries to seep in at every turn? I think it might be. I don’t have any other explanation.
I am not under the misguided assumption of Karma—that we get back what we put out in the world. In many cases I thank God that we don’t. We do not get what we deserve. No one deserves bad things to happen to them no more than we deserve good things to happen to us. They just do. It’s called living. We get one thing when we take our first breath until we take our last breath. We get one chance to live in the world. It’s up to us whether we take our bitter pills dry and sticking in our throats or if we wash them down with a bit of the sweetest wine of living.
I prefer White Zinfandel.
Monika M. Basile
This is a prayer I have prayed my entire life and I am hoping it will continue to fend off my increased chances to do just that. I seem to be swallowing a variety of bitter pills lately and I begin to fear it will poison my body as well as my soul. I don’t want it to…ever.
I am not a Pollyanna, I used to be, but I am not now. I wonder sometimes, if I am able to balance seeing the real world, my real life—the actual truth of it all and continue to still see the world as something beautiful and adventurous. It was so much easier to do when I wore brightly colored blinders and just kept going and ignored the awful parts of life—even if the awful parts were happening to me.
I have watched people grow bitter throughout my life, and it is something I desperately never wanted to be. I have seen the women, the men and even children with scowls on their faces and a bit of meanness shining through. It scares me and leaves me wondering why some people do become bitter and others keep hoping and trudging through still trying to be a light in the lives of other.
Is it the hope? Is that the difference among us?
I get angry and sad and exhausted, yet—I still have hope that good things and people are intended to and still do enter my life. The more we hope, the more we hang on, the more likelihood it will turn into faith. Faith is the belief that does not rest on logical proof or material evidence. There is no guarantee that my life or the lives of others around me will improve or get easier or suddenly become untroubled. Yet the faith inside of me continues to grow. Is this what pushes out the bitterness that tries to seep in at every turn? I think it might be. I don’t have any other explanation.
I am not under the misguided assumption of Karma—that we get back what we put out in the world. In many cases I thank God that we don’t. We do not get what we deserve. No one deserves bad things to happen to them no more than we deserve good things to happen to us. They just do. It’s called living. We get one thing when we take our first breath until we take our last breath. We get one chance to live in the world. It’s up to us whether we take our bitter pills dry and sticking in our throats or if we wash them down with a bit of the sweetest wine of living.
I prefer White Zinfandel.
Monika M. Basile
December 7, 2010
The Glory of Snow Angels
Today I beheld the sweetest snow angels I ever knew.
I am a woman who has lost most everything that is material. I have no yard. I have an asphalt parking lot. There are many days I mourn the loss of a real back yard, a home, my porch swing and an actual neighborhood. It is hard to adjust still after almost two years to a small apartment over a pharmacy/doctor’s office with no real outside to visit. I miss it. I truly do.
Yet today, with the fresh fallen snow, the young women in my home decided to make the best of things and work with what they had to, and enjoy themselves anyway. To my surprise they had a snowball fight in between pharmacy customers and cars in the parking lot. They made snow angels near the wall where the snow had not been damaged yet. They were silly and alive and they taught me a valuable lesson that I have spent much too much time trying to learn.
Though we have lost much in a physical way, we are still together and still capable of having the greatest joys in the simplest of things. And we are each able to appreciate the blessings we have. Though I snapped photos from a rusty staircase instead of the coziness of my front porch, I realize I am happy to have these important people to photograph. I have still what is most important and to my utter astonishment I also realized that what I have tried to teach them—they actually learned. The words I have spoken over the years have made an impact on their lives.
Once back inside, a discussion ensued amongst these wonderful young women about the homeless and each tried to think of ways they could help. Each felt the need to help someone with even less than they each have. I could not have been more proud. And each of these young women were able to tell a tale of when they did help and what they wanted to do to continue.
We are not destitute though things are mighty tight. I have lost a house but not a home. I have lost “things” and “places” but not people. I have lost a dream or two and pieces of my heart here and there but I have kept the things that are lasting and most important.
Snow angels never melt, not the real ones. They are permanently tattooed across this heart of mine.
Monika M. Basile
I am a woman who has lost most everything that is material. I have no yard. I have an asphalt parking lot. There are many days I mourn the loss of a real back yard, a home, my porch swing and an actual neighborhood. It is hard to adjust still after almost two years to a small apartment over a pharmacy/doctor’s office with no real outside to visit. I miss it. I truly do.
Yet today, with the fresh fallen snow, the young women in my home decided to make the best of things and work with what they had to, and enjoy themselves anyway. To my surprise they had a snowball fight in between pharmacy customers and cars in the parking lot. They made snow angels near the wall where the snow had not been damaged yet. They were silly and alive and they taught me a valuable lesson that I have spent much too much time trying to learn.
Though we have lost much in a physical way, we are still together and still capable of having the greatest joys in the simplest of things. And we are each able to appreciate the blessings we have. Though I snapped photos from a rusty staircase instead of the coziness of my front porch, I realize I am happy to have these important people to photograph. I have still what is most important and to my utter astonishment I also realized that what I have tried to teach them—they actually learned. The words I have spoken over the years have made an impact on their lives.
Once back inside, a discussion ensued amongst these wonderful young women about the homeless and each tried to think of ways they could help. Each felt the need to help someone with even less than they each have. I could not have been more proud. And each of these young women were able to tell a tale of when they did help and what they wanted to do to continue.
We are not destitute though things are mighty tight. I have lost a house but not a home. I have lost “things” and “places” but not people. I have lost a dream or two and pieces of my heart here and there but I have kept the things that are lasting and most important.
Snow angels never melt, not the real ones. They are permanently tattooed across this heart of mine.
Monika M. Basile
