ON THE ROCKS, WITH A TWIST

How I take my holidays

Last night, from the last tannins of a twin-squeezed psyche, I extracted a plan. It was nothing grand, just the notion that with a flashlight, under a gibbous moon, we could make our way to the orchard next door to visit a much-revered Ford tractor named “Cutie Pie.”

Cutie Pie had been standing sentinel at the top of a long lakebed slope with a manure-spreader attached for days, to the delight of my children every time we drove by. A pilgrimage to see her would make use of the long hour before dinner, instead of relegating that chunk to survival alone. (I am not against simply surviving— it’s the way of things— I just get bored of it sometimes, so whenever I remember to, and have had an extra caffeinated drink, I go for some razzle-dazzle and elect to enjoy things in spite of themselves.)

It went much as one might imagine: there was some crying, some laughing, some slogging, some stern words about puddles and it being too cold and there being too much freshly spread manure in them to sit in them, etc.

There was much admiring and an emphasis on touching Cutie Pie when we arrived; perhaps this is the natural result of constantly having to drive by the things you’re passionate about, when you’re two going on three— a deep need to finally touch them. Contact, at last.

When I packed them back into the stroller to make our way back home through the wind, I noticed there was a soft cloud-rainbow circling the moon. I pointed it out to my kids, and as we were admiring it, I saw Venus and Jupiter, too, bold and tiny like the light that now comes through the alphabet mat my daughter poked holes in with a screwdriver.

“Look! Venus! And Jupiter!” I said, pointing. There was a pause. Then my daughter yelled, “WHERE’S SNATURN?”

We had set out to the tune of the expected (we knew where Cutie Pie would be, even in the dark; we knew there would be puddles to negotiate; we knew there was a moon outside, etc.). The unexpected had intervened, throwing a rainbow around the moon and clearing the sky for actual planets we could actually see.

And in the next swing of the pendulum, my daughter revisited the known. To her understanding, when you could see Venus and Jupiter, you should also be able to see “Snaturn,” since that’s what happened that one time we were down playing in the dark by the boathouse in back of the grocery store and an older couple walked by, at first scaring the jeebers out of Mama, and then softly, warmly pointing out the relative syzygy occurring over our unwitting heads.

I’m sure it’s some evolutionary thing about avoiding tigers, as 78% of what we do probably is, but we humans really do a good job expecting things to happen again the same way, simply because they’ve happened that way before.

*

Something about addressing winter/solstice/holiday/new year’s cards this year felt like a slog. As a person who is able and likely to delight in repetitive tasks like stuffing envelopes, both for the brief meditation they offer and for the jungle gym of perhaps-slightly-dysfunctional pleasure they provide to the OCPD-inclined, I was surprised that I felt dull about the stacks to fold, stuff, seal, address, and stamp. I got it done, and with no less goodwill towards those they were addressed to, but there was a heaviness in my scrawling hand.

There was something wrong with the list, which I couldn’t put a finger on. It was the list I always used. Then it struck me: that was the problem! It was the same list as always. I was driving my tractor in the same tracks— good ones, of course, but if you drive any track too many times the exact same way, eventually it deepens so far your axle drags.

So I put a call up on social media for anyone who *wanted* a card to send their address, thinking that was probably a little absurd, and not much would happen. Who asks for holiday cards, anyway? Aren’t they basically something you get that you didn’t ask for? A sweet little loving burden, like the neighbors’ extra zucchini in August?

What happened was magical. Eight or ten people got right in touch, said they wanted a card (!), and I found myself beaming, adding new addresses to my book. That felt right— to do what had worked before, but with adjustments that reflected change and the moment.

A crucial part of this equation that led to a flood of relief and delight was the act of asking. So often we assume we know or can make a reasonable guess at what people want, need, and feel, when really we’re pretty far off. Very few of the additions to my address books are folks I would have expected to both take interest and freely express that interest. It was a huge gift to hear from them, to add them like jewels to my collection, to hear the resonance of their asking in return: “please send me what you have to offer. I value it.”

*

The expected, the unexpected. Asking and giving. Each alone seems so simple. I marvel at how they twine around each other, swirling up like our dumbfounded eyes towards previously unheeded planetary alignments in the night sky.

Last night, a benighted trio climbed the ladder of their habits and expectations to arrive at complete surprises, like a weird, diffuse moon rainbow, and the feel of the tractor’s tread against our hands.

Today, I steady my own to go ahead and ask, to find out what opens.