Terri Wallace's Blog, page 7

The Problem with Fandoms (a/k/a The Objectification of Sam Heughan)

Fandoms rock. You know what rocks even more? Respectful fandoms. Fandoms that don���t have a sense of entitlement. Fandoms that don���t objectify. Fandoms that aren���t snide and snarky.

I am a proud fan-girl. I binge watch The Walking Dead. I eagerly try to convert others into Sherlockians. Somewhere there is a belt with a notch for every friend I have turned into a Whovian. I will talk Outlander all day long (and often do talk about it all day–to anyone who will listen, and many who don���t). So, when I find others who are equally obsessive, it���s like finding a kindred soul���except when it isn���t.

There is a dark underbelly to the fandoms. One which I didn���t really see until it stared back at me from my Facebook feed. Eager Outlander that I am, I recently joined several groups on Facebook: Other people who have read the books and loved them! How much fun is that? Except, it wasn���t.

I knew that things were going downhill when I read the comments on Sam Heughan���s video of himself doing the ���burpee challenge��� for My Peak Challenge. He posted a video��of himself completing five minutes of burpees. The video utilized a fast forward effect and had no audio. It was cute and inspiring. The comments on Twitter and FB, however, were anything but! One commenter actually said that Sam needed to post the unedited video so that she ���could hear his heavy breathing and panting.��� Um, what? Since when is it considered okay for the fandom to, basically, ask for masterbatory material?

Now, Sam is a good looking man, and it is perfectly fine to notice that, or to respectfully comment on that, or to give a compliment. But at a certain point things get, well, creepy. Some other commenter actually said, ���I know that I am totally objectifying him, and that if a man did this to a woman it would piss me off, but it is so much fun.���

That was the point that I decided that was not the group for me. *unfollow* But it bothered me. A lot. So I thought long and hard about what exactly was bothering me. And, honestly, there was more than one problem at hand.

First was the double standard. To find it offensive when a man makes a certain type of comment about a woman, and then to turn around and make the same type of comment about a man is the Height of Hypocrisy. And then to acknowledge your hypocrisy, and to dismiss it as somehow inconsequential���. *mind boggles*

There was something else, though. Something, perhaps even more insidious. This same group of commenters who were self-avowed fans of all-things-Outlander, for some reason seemed to feel that, while Sam Heughan could do no wrong (other than associating with other females in real life),it seemed that Caitriona Balfe���well, her boobs were ���weird��� and ���did she put on weight?��� and ���why did she wear that?��� This lovely woman who embodies the strong female character that they all claim to love is suddenly, and quite thoroughly, torn to shreds in the comments. And why? Well, certainly not because of her boobs, and not because she wore red, and not because she is a perfectly healthy weight, but because tearing her down makes them feel better. And because, by gosh, the fandom wants ���Jamie��� for their verra own, so clearly ���Claire��� has to go. *cue the snark and pass the wine*

���Well, but Claire she really should have been curvier/skinnier, and her hair was curlier/straighter, and her boobs were bigger/rounder,��� they scream–all the while forgetting that while the character is fictional, the person portraying them is very, very real.

Now, hopefully the actors are adjusting to their time in the sun, and hopefully they turn a blind eye to this kind of crap. In fact, I���m far more worried about what this says about us. What else are we modeling for our children? What do we teach our sons and daughters when we tear down another female because she doesn���t live up to our ideal? What are we condoning when we turn Sam Heughan into eye candy rather than a talented actor who is trying to use his position to help others? Sam���s video was done in the first place because he wants to help find a cure for blood cancer, for God���s sake! (Feel free to go donate here.)�� And what about the charitable work that Caitriona does? *cue crickets* (In case you didn���t know, she supports the charity World Child Cancer, and you can donate here.)

Now, personally, I am happy that blood cancer charities are (hopefully) seeing a spike in donations due to Sam���s endorsement. And I couldn���t care less if people donate because they really want to find a cure or because it makes them feel, in some creepy way, closer to Sam Heughan. Hell, donate away! Donate twice! Three times! Make Sam proud!

Sheesh.

And you better believe I���m not against having opinions, or finding beauty (or not) where you may. I am not against discussing opinions, or preferences, or the fact that Sam Heughan looks bonnie in a kilt. Not at all. The man is bonnie. (So is Caitriona, by the way. Fair is fair.)

If you want to have a glass of wine and watch The Wedding episode in slo-mo while noting all the ways that Jamie is a better husband than the real-life one who is snoring in the other room because he���s exhausted after working hard all week, I can���t stop you. And if making snarky comments about a really talented actress because she has the make-believe life that you think you���re entitled to, then open another bottle and knock yourself out.

But, let���s be clear, you aren���t part of the fandom���you are part of the problem.

Finding Words

Gorgeous example of Scottish Gaelic. *swoon*

I have spent the better part of my life trying to find the right words:����the right words for school papers, and tests, and excuses; the right words to express attraction, to break up, to try again; the right words for characters, and stories, and plot.�� My words have been my refuge, my armor, and my livelihood.

I decided recently that I wanted to learn G��idhlig.�� (Fair warning, if you read Outlander, you will find yourself wanting to��do such things.�� It has also made me dig out my old herbals, develop a fast and��furious love of whisky, and it had reminded me��how very, very much I��adore a man in a kilt.)

For once, though, words fail me.�� (Or perhaps I fail them.)�� I have to��stop and think more about what I want to say.�� (Which, knowing me, is a very prudent thing, indeed.)�� I struggle to convey my meaning and to find just the right word to express��the feeling I hold in my heart.

As��a very��verbal person, it is humbling to��try to shape the��words…the sounds…the meaning.

Every time a thought strikes me,��my hand reaches for the��English/G��idhlig dictionary so that I can try to reframe the thought.�� I have words and pronunciations written on post-it notes, tucked in my coat pocket, scribbled on the back of envelopes.�� But despite the struggle, I adore it.�� The sound of the words, the cadence, the intonation.

My children have already picked up a��few��phrases.�� This could be due to the��fact that I once told them that some words��were simply more satisfying to say in other languages…particularly��insults and curses.

My eldest child is taking French in school.�� (And she is trying to self-teach Japanese, bless her heart.�� She adores manga.)�� My middle child��is taking Spanish, but is only really fluent in the American “pre-teen” dialect.�� My youngest speaks “Boy” which, close as I can tell, consists of a bunch of grunts, snorts, and the occasional term of endearment (but only if his friends aren’t around).

I suppose this makes us polyglots.

Perhaps my mostly-forgotten-French and only-slightly-better-Spanish no longer “count,” but certainly any language I try to learn after the age of 40, based only on a love of the language, should count for something.��

Chan eil aon ch��nan gu le��r.

A Love Letter to Bookstores

Certain smells take me back. Songs are long like too…and flavors. Strange how emotions can be conjured…how our senses conspire to reconnect with the past.

Foggy mist reminds me of my senior year in high school—during that part of the season when winter is still thawing into spring. Huddled in my car, U2 played on the cassette player, and I penned long love letters to my first real boyfriend—as if our separation would be much longer than a mere seven hours’ time.

Autumn, with is swirling leaves and crisp winds, has always been my favorite season– long hikes under bare canopies, the smell of wood smoke wafting over rooftops; walking side by side, fingers intertwined, nose running from the chill, lips chapped and cold…but welcoming and eager.

When I hear Leonard Cohen the walls close in and my heart cracks open. I am twenty-four and have let go of the only world I ever knew or wanted. His voice carries my doubt and regret, and it serves as a reminder of every mistake I’ve ever made. He is the soundtrack of the bitterness in my soul; he is the scar that reminds me of past wounds.

Potatoes and onions, warm and pungent, bring me comfort. The flavors meld together and call forth home, and security, and solace. The chatter of children, the low hum of the news droning in the background, and the scratching of pencil on paper as homework is completed…the familiar bustle is punctuated only by the sound of dinner sizzling on the stovetop.

Digging into the still chilled-soil of April, the smell of earth grabs hold of me. Quite unlike the pungent green smell of spring, earth is timeless and ancient. I dig my hands deeper and let the scent renew my soul. For a moment, I am a child in my grandmother’s garden digging up new potatoes, the warm sun shining on my face. I close my eyes to stay there just a bit longer.

And always, always, the smell of an old bookstore. If I could, I would wear it like a perfume. Bookstores punctuate my life as much as any song, any movie, or any cherished article of clothing. I can tell you exactly what was going on in my life by what bookstore I was frequenting.

Dalton was the bookstore of my childhood. Orthodontist visits were made tolerable only by the promise of books afterwards. Each visit to dental hell was followed up immediately afterwards by a visit to the B. Dalton Bookstore in Utica Square, and I piled the books high. As recompense for the pain, my parents indulged my voracious appetite for escape.

First Edition down on Cherry Street was the bookstore of my heart. A converted house, room after room, filled with every type of book imaginable. Benches and chairs invited book browsers to loiter away the hours. Tiny closets piled high to the ceiling offered barely enough room to turn around. Tall shelves offered privacy, for both shy readers and young lovebirds.  It’s gone now, just like that period of my life, but I remember it with the same sense of longing.

Gardners was the bookstore of my college years. There was little order to the books, but they were available in abundance, and at a price that my slim purse could afford. Their vast number of books satisfied my eclectic tastes and no one bothered you when you spent hours browsing the crowded nooks and crannies.

Peace of Mind bookstore offered herbals and religion, history and metaphysics, and anything quirky that I couldn’t find anywhere else. It was a favorite high school haunt. The building’s uneven floors and drafty windows lent a certain bohemian charm to the shop.

In the age of Amazon, it can be easier to order online. New, used, old, rare, and out of print…they are easily available with the click of a button. It comes right to your door.

I see it like this:  a microwaved meal can quell hunger, but a meal made with time and patience, with fresh ingredients and love…well that does more than just nourish the body; it nourishes the soul. And so is it with bookstores, especially independent bookstores. You get more than just a book, you get an experience. The smell of the books, the flash of a cover that calls to you, the suddenly recollection of an often-forgotten title….these are all lost when you merely “add to cart.”

I love books: hardback, paperback, e-books, new, and used. And I love bookstores: new, used, on-line, and independent. But bookstores, physical bookstores, are what stay with me. They are what define these periods of my life. They are what made me into the reader I am.

Bookstores were my refuge. They still are.

Yes, it is strange how emotions can be conjured. Memory after memory, strung together with the fragile web of sensation. Smell, and sound, and taste, and touch all circling around to the past.

His Name is Raif Badawi

When you are born into a freedom, it is easier to take it for granted.  The past week has reminded me that my ability to write is not a freedom that everyone enjoys.  The terrorist attacks in Paris were a call to arms, or rather pens, to many in the writing community.

The ability to convey emotion, to rally people, to create a community with a stroke of the pen, with a collection of words, is a powerful thing.  And that power is scary to some.  As a writer, I know that a good book can aspire, motivate, and create stirrings within the soul that last a lifetime.  Great books, well, they can change lives.

There are different books that have spoken to me over the years, books that have taken root in my soul.  My family teases me that I can relate anything to Outlander.  Diana Gabaldon should be proud, because my family is quite right.  And the reading of the books has changed me.  It reawakened in me my love of all things herbal, it made me want to start learning the Gàidhlig, it made me want to be a better Catholic, and to delve deeper into history and heritage.

So, strange as it may sound, when I first heard of Saudi Arabian blogger Raif Badawi I realized that apparently the books had also provided a tiny glimpse into the horror of the punishment which has been (and will continue to be) inflicted on him.  Raif Badawi is one of the co-founders of the Free Saudi Liberals website (which has since been shut down).  In 2012 Badawi was arrested and sentenced to 1,000 lashes and a decade in prison.  His crime?  Insulting Islam on his online forum.

After Friday prayers, Badawi was the Al-Juffali mosque in Jiddah (which has been dubbed ‘Chop Chop Square’ due to its use as the site of executions).  The first fifty lashes was carried out Friday, and he will receive another fifty lashes each week for the next twenty weeks.

Because I had no other mental point of reference, nothing else with which to provide a visual framework for the horrors which this man must endure, my mind went to the only point of context available.  James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser.  Readers of the book will know perfectly well which scene was called to mind.  I didn’t need to remind them.

The idea of this punishment being inflicted, week in and week out, fresh injury on top of unhealed wounds, was unimaginable.  Or rather, it might have been.

I cried when I read the scene in Outlander where Dougal MacKenzie describes in graphic detail what happened to Jamie at the hands of Black Jack Randall.  I cried even more when I saw Sam Heughan’s agonizing portrayal.  Without this, I would have had no point of reference for the horror facing Badawi.  My mind simply would not know how to frame it.  Of course, as Dougal points out, “Imagination is all verra well, but it isn’t equal to the sight of a man having his back laid open.  A verra nasty thing–it’s meant to break a man, and most often it succeeds.”  I have no true knowledge or experience, just my imagination and the framework provided by a book.  Admittedly, that makes me ignorant…and also quite lucky.

At the second flogging, Dougal notes, “A pitiful sight, it was, too–still raw, no more than half-healed, wi’ the weals turned black and the rest yellow wi’ bruises.  The thought of a whip comin’ down on that soreness was enough to make be blench, along wi’ most of those watching.”

And, to think, Badawi will endure this every week, for twenty weeks.

Claire asks Dougal why he told her the horrible and very graphic depiction of what happened to Jamie.  He replies, “I thought it might serve as what ye may call a character illustration.” At first Claire thinks that Dougal means of Black Jack, but he clarifies.  “Of Randall,” he agrees, “and Jamie too.”

I read that Badawi (like our hero Jamie) endured the first fifty lashes in silence, his eyes closed, stoic.  And again, I wept.

My ten daughter saw me reading on my phone yesterday and rolled her eyes.  “Are you reading Outlander again?” she asked with a tolerant grin.  “Those books always make you cry.  And the television show.  You cry during it, too.”  I shook my head.  No, this wasn’t Outlander, this was real life.

“Honey, do you remember the part where they flogged Jamie?” I asked.  “Well, that really happened to someone yesterday.  In real life. Someone really had to go through that.  And he’ll have to go through it every week for the next twenty weeks.  And it makes me sad.  It hurts me to think about it.”

“Don’t read it then,” she said, looking at my phone like she would not tolerate its part in making her mommy cry.

“Even if I don’t read it, honey.  It still happens, and I can’t pretend it doesn’t.  The man who was flogged wrote a blog.  Just like me.  That’s what he was flogged for.  What if I were flogged because someone didn’t like what I wrote?” I asked.

Raif Badawi with his children in a picture supplied to Amnesty. Photograph: Amnesty

Her eyes grew big.  “What’s his name?” she whispered.

“His name is Raif Badawi.  He lives in Saudi Arabia, and he has three kids…just like I do,” I told her.  “And there is nothing I can do about it.  On Friday, it will happen all over again.  Every Friday.”

“We can pray for him,” she offered, searching her ten year old mind for something helpful.  “And…you could write about him.  In your blog.”

And so we did.  And I am.

And it seems so painfully, horribly inadequate.

Tha mi br��nach

There is something about January…

When the living room is devoid of tree and garland, and the last scraps of wrapping paper have been bagged up and taken to the curb, and the oven is cold after weeks of nearly continuous use…that’s when you are most vulnerable.�� That is when it finds you, and settles into your winter weary bones, and takes root.�� Perhaps it is the post-holiday blues, or something to do with less daylight, or less laughter, or less…something.

But it comes nonetheless; it always does.�� Some years it hits harder than others.�� No reason why, really.��It just does.

Simple things slip your mind.�� Routine broken, it is easy for things to fall through the cracks.�� And it is hard to even think; the house is both too loud and too quiet.����The��frigid winds make outdoors unbearable, but��inside the��air hangs heavy, unmoving, suffocating.

The��store shelves��are picked over.�� Discount��holiday paper and stale Christmas cookies��are stacked next to Valentine’s Day candies and heart wielding teddy bears;��the last of the winter coats languish just a rack over from brightly colored bikinis.

A strange time, this.�� And I, caught between the pull of winter and the promise of spring,��find myself ripping��at the seams under the strain of this seasonal tug o’ war.

I find solace where I can: in my books, my words, and deep in my head; in warm socks, and hot tea, and a dram of whisky to cast off the chill; in stories, and crackling fires, and the��promise of something…well, of something.����Something beyond the cold, and the tired, and the weary.

I feel��sadness on me.��

Tha mi brónach

There is something about January…

When the living room is devoid of tree and garland, and the last scraps of wrapping paper have been bagged up and taken to the curb, and the oven is cold after weeks of nearly continuous use…that’s when you are most vulnerable.  That is when it finds you, and settles into your winter weary bones, and takes root.  Perhaps it is the post-holiday blues, or something to do with less daylight, or less laughter, or less…something.

But it comes nonetheless; it always does.  Some years it hits harder than others.  No reason why, really. It just does.

Simple things slip your mind.  Routine broken, it is easy for things to fall through the cracks.  And it is hard to even think; the house is both too loud and too quiet.  The frigid winds make outdoors unbearable, but inside the air hangs heavy, unmoving, suffocating.

The store shelves are picked over.  Discount holiday paper and stale Christmas cookies are stacked next to Valentine’s Day candies and heart wielding teddy bears; the last of the winter coats languish just a rack over from brightly colored bikinis.

A strange time, this.  And I, caught between the pull of winter and the promise of spring, find myself ripping at the seams under the strain of this seasonal tug o’ war.

I find solace where I can: in my books, my words, and deep in my head; in warm socks, and hot tea, and a dram of whisky to cast off the chill; in stories, and crackling fires, and the promise of something…well, of something.  Something beyond the cold, and the tired, and the weary.

I feel sadness on me. 

Still Haven’t Found What You’re Searchin’ For… (a year of internet searches in review)

It always fascinates me to find out how people found my blog.  Here are some of the search terms that brought them to my page (and my snarky comments, when warranted).

A Sampling of Search Terms from 2014

loom bends  (I don’t think I have those here)

write a short story entitled never take things for granted (…but apparently take for granted that you can find one on the internet that someone else wrote and pass it off as your own)

bliadhna mhath ur (Tapadh leibh!)

peddling on my own (I wonder what a group of peddlers is called…?)

cuidich mi a dhia (A good all-purpose prayer.)

james alexander malcolm mackenzie fraser  (Enough said.)

nothing like a sudden health scare to help you prioritise  (True, my friend.)

what word means writing a story about myself  (Um, memoir? autobiography? narcissist?)

short story of a man who has plan for god  (Man plans, God laughs.)

mean behind the words ” it should be fine”  (Everything is about to go to shit.)

did peddlers have families (I am not aware of any peddlers conceived via immaculate conception, so I would guess they at least had parents)

its 55 degrees but only september.com sweater weather?  (Not sure what you’re asking…go put on a sweater and try again.)

sam heughan  (Seems like a lovely fellow. Next!)

read free books!!! word press  (Yes! Do it! )

writer’s guilt  (So many writers…so much guilt.)

sam heughan jamie fraser (Do I really talk about Outlander that much?)

images hot tub with red light  (Hey, hey.  None of that here.)

quiet grace  (Not much of that either.)

worst 2014 year hope my 2015 year comes out good for me and my family poems (I hope your 2015 comes out good, too. Slàinte mhòr agus a h-uile beannachd duibh. )

coddling wine  (Wine.  Really?  Wine brought you here?  Whisky – sure, but wine?)

sexy pen names  (Why thank you, but it’s all natural.  Really.)

Whew.  So there is a recap of the top search results which led readers to my blog in 2014.  I think I am going to go sit in my hot tub with a bottle of Laphroaig and read some Outlander now.

Where There is Need…

The first dream of the New Year or hatsuyume (初夢) is traditionally considered an omen of how the coming year will welcome you.

My first dream of 2015 was of me walking the perimeter of my yard and finding trees laden with fruit.  The branches hung over the walls and draped low to the ground making it easy to gather the offerings.  There was a rock wall around the yard but the trees and bushes, rich with fruits, nearly obscured the wall from view.  I did not feel imprisoned by the enclosed, but rather safe and in a place of refuge.  I picked armfuls of huge ripe lemons and, suddenly curious, I pulled the skin off one and put a section in my mouth.  I had anticipated it to be sour, but it was as sweet as if it had been drizzled with honey.

I sensed my middle daughter nearby and looked up to see her tasting something, too.  I looked closer and recognized a fig in her hand.  I asked her where she got it and she pointed to the ground, then I looked up to see a fig tree laden with fruit, so I began to pick those as well.

I could sense my husband drawing near, and he was busy picking apples.  I joined him in the picking until the fruit was piling around our feet.  Then I saw dates growing on a tree.  I picked those, too, and tucked them in my pockets until they bulged with the harvest.

We gathered the fruit and I dropped to my knees to pick up more.  As I scraped at the ground, potatoes emerged from the soil, so I added those to our bounty.

Pockets bulging and arms full, I walked to my mother’s house.  I began to empty my pockets so that I could share with her.  She noticed the enormous potatoes and asked if I had three of them.  I dusted the dirt off them and was about to advise her that I just had the two, when I dipped my hand back into my pocket and drew out another, then another, then another.

When I began to unload the apples, it was as if they too had multiplied.  I produced row after row of apples in all shades of red and gold.  I extracted more sugary dates from my pockets and added them to the abundance.

When I returned home, all was well–but there was a guest who needed a place to sleep.  I looked around for where we could put her during her stay, and a room emerged–fully decorated and inviting–to house her.

The entire dream seemed to consist of there being a need…and it being immediately and thoughtfully provided for.

May 2015 be so generous.

Bliadhna Mhath ��r!

The year is winding down, and I survived (*knocking on wood*).�� I survived Thanksgiving, and the mad dash to prepare for Christmas, and the holiday parties, and Christmas Eve with my in-laws, and Christmas Day with more extended family and other in-laws.�� There was a not-unheard-of amount of drama, and mess, and stress.�� Then there was the quiet.

�� A few days after Christmas things tend to get…still.�� I think it this happens as a sort of recharging, or as self-preservation, or perhaps from mere exhaustion.�� This year, nature must have sensed the need, too, because it cooperated.�� A cold front descended, a bit of snow fell…the fireplace roared, candles were lit, and a dram or two of whisky helped to keep the chill at bay while friends came to visit and we all talked long into the night.�� And amid all the hustle and bustle of the season, a moment of quiet was found.

As the last few days of the year dwindle down, I tend to get more reflective and perhaps a bit maudlin.�� Each year tends to have a bit of a theme that becomes clear as��the year draws��to a close.�� 2012 was The Year of Writing.�� 2013 was The Year of the Move.�� 2014 seemed to have been The Year of Medical Drama.�� Three (Four? Five?) Familial Hospitalizations (one of which resulted in Five Fewer Bodily Organs), one eye surgery, and untold visits to doctors, urgent care, and pharmacies later, I think this year has earned its moniker.

I have no idea what 2015 will bring, but I start each year with good intentions, and aspirations, and hope.�� I hope that 2015 will bring health, and love, and good stories, and enough.�� Food enough to fill our stomachs, warmth enough to keep the chill at bay, money enough to provide for my family and friends (and a bit more to help those whose faces I may not know but whose needs are real).

I want to read more, and write more, and spend more time with my family.�� I want to feel more comfortable in my own skin, to learn a new language, to figure out how to knit more than just the one type of stitch.�� I want to put in a bigger garden, and cook healthier, and walk/run more.�� I want to let go of things I don’t need (be it the boxes of extra things in the attic, those��couple of��holiday pounds that crept up on me while I was making merry, my sometimes paralyzing writer’s doubt, or the dull ache of mom-guilt).�� I want to hug more, worry less, try harder, and laugh louder.

New Year’s Eve will be here soon.�� My husband and I have decided to claim this as our holiday.�� Unlike Christmas, or Thanksgiving, or the Fourth of July, no other family members have a claim on this day.�� There are no familial obligations tethering us to anyone else’s expectations, traditions, or demands.�� We don’t have to go anywhere or do anything.�� No one’s feelings will be hurt by our absence or alternate arrangements.�� It is ours.�� So, as we see the backside of 2014, there will be candles, and a peat fire in which to throw the remains of doubt, dread, and regret so that we don’t carry them with us into the new year.�� (Likewise, before New Year’s Day, Christmas will be carefully packed away so as to not carry the remains of the last year into the new one.)

As the last hours of 2014 dwindle down��there will be a toast to whatever is to come,��followed by strict adherence to the plethora of superstitions to ensure a prosperous new year (first footing at midnight and, after the new year dawns, there will be��black eyed peas, something green and something gold, and finally–on Twelfth Night–��the burning of the greens).

But until then, I’ll revel in the last of the turkey, and the glow of the Christmas lights, and the familiar comfort of a year well lived.�� Bliadhna Mhath ��r!

Bliadhna Mhath Ùr!

The year is winding down, and I survived (*knocking on wood*).  I survived Thanksgiving, and the mad dash to prepare for Christmas, and the holiday parties, and Christmas Eve with my in-laws, and Christmas Day with more extended family and other in-laws.  There was a not-unheard-of amount of drama, and mess, and stress.  Then there was the quiet.

  A few days after Christmas things tend to get…still.  I think it this happens as a sort of recharging, or as self-preservation, or perhaps from mere exhaustion.  This year, nature must have sensed the need, too, because it cooperated.  A cold front descended, a bit of snow fell…the fireplace roared, candles were lit, and a dram or two of whisky helped to keep the chill at bay while friends came to visit and we all talked long into the night.  And amid all the hustle and bustle of the season, a moment of quiet was found.

As the last few days of the year dwindle down, I tend to get more reflective and perhaps a bit maudlin.  Each year tends to have a bit of a theme that becomes clear as the year draws to a close.  2012 was The Year of Writing.  2013 was The Year of the Move.  2014 seemed to have been The Year of Medical Drama.  Three (Four? Five?) Familial Hospitalizations (one of which resulted in Five Fewer Bodily Organs), one eye surgery, and untold visits to doctors, urgent care, and pharmacies later, I think this year has earned its moniker.

I have no idea what 2015 will bring, but I start each year with good intentions, and aspirations, and hope.  I hope that 2015 will bring health, and love, and good stories, and enough.  Food enough to fill our stomachs, warmth enough to keep the chill at bay, money enough to provide for my family and friends (and a bit more to help those whose faces I may not know but whose needs are real).

I want to read more, and write more, and spend more time with my family.  I want to feel more comfortable in my own skin, to learn a new language, to figure out how to knit more than just the one type of stitch.  I want to put in a bigger garden, and cook healthier, and walk/run more.  I want to let go of things I don’t need (be it the boxes of extra things in the attic, those couple of holiday pounds that crept up on me while I was making merry, my sometimes paralyzing writer’s doubt, or the dull ache of mom-guilt).  I want to hug more, worry less, try harder, and laugh louder.

New Year’s Eve will be here soon.  My husband and I have decided to claim this as our holiday.  Unlike Christmas, or Thanksgiving, or the Fourth of July, no other family members have a claim on this day.  There are no familial obligations tethering us to anyone else’s expectations, traditions, or demands.  We don’t have to go anywhere or do anything.  No one’s feelings will be hurt by our absence or alternate arrangements.  It is ours.  So, as we see the backside of 2014, there will be candles, and a peat fire in which to throw the remains of doubt, dread, and regret so that we don’t carry them with us into the new year.  (Likewise, before New Year’s Day, Christmas will be carefully packed away so as to not carry the remains of the last year into the new one.)

As the last hours of 2014 dwindle down there will be a toast to whatever is to come, followed by strict adherence to the plethora of superstitions to ensure a prosperous new year (first footing at midnight and, after the new year dawns, there will be black eyed peas, something green and something gold, and finally–on Twelfth Night– the burning of the greens).

But until then, I’ll revel in the last of the turkey, and the glow of the Christmas lights, and the familiar comfort of a year well lived.  Bliadhna Mhath Ùr!