From the winter solstice to the spring equinox

We adopted our Christmas tree when a friend moved and offered us her mid-sized Norfolk pine. Our immediate previous Christmas tree had been a Norfolk pine that languished from inept care and, before that, last minute, spindly specimens that we felt sorry for, sitting unchosen in the Boy Scout tree sale. Several years ago, back almost before memory sets in, we actually cut down trees on a wooded patch we had access to. One year it was essentially two dimensional and another year it had been so enthusiastically shaped by its previous owners that there were no extending branches to hang homemade stars on.

 

As a child I always wept when well-meaning adults read the Hans Christian Anderson tale about the chosen Christmas tree, gorgeously adorned one day, abandoned on the trash heap the next. For this reason, I always delayed taking down the tree until it became a brown, shedding, terrifying fire hazard. In those days there were no families of goats advertising that they would really enjoy welcoming the new year by feasting on piles of spent fir trees.

 

I never felt that artificial trees were of interest, and the fad of live trees didn’t take either. What would you do with the poor burlap wrapped specimens, taken from their home, brought inside, underwatered, and then – added to a small patch of yard in the spring. Where would it thrive from January to April or May? And picture this: We would now have a forest of over sixty trees on a small city lot if we had gone that route,

 

So, three decades ago we put a few lights on a three-foot Norfolk pine, a lovely little green thing we would love at Christmas and nurture lovingly throughout the year. Only – that second part didn’t happen. I wasn’t adept at tending indoor trees. Yet, in spite of my lapses, it grew tall, a little spindly and brown, but It served us for many years. Alas, one year it reached the ceiling, and it had to go. 

 

That was the year my friend moved house and offered us her tree. A set of three, all in the same pot, very beautiful and full and green. She knew how to tend indoor trees.

 

Our little trinity of trees has flourished. It bears its lights bravely, sustains itself through my sporadic  attention, and beams brightly with over 100 lights from the solstice in December to the equinox in March.

 

I am enchanted with this source of winter light.  I rise early.  I come down in the darkness, flip the switch, and – Let there be light! Lights collaborate with two walls of windows and one wall of framed kid art. They reflect back to me, and  I am surrounded by light.

 

 I am blessed with lights shining in the darkness. 

 

 

 

 

 

  

2024 Christmas and New Year’s 2025

I wish I had counted the number of people and their dogs who have come and gone during this season. Two things I know for sure: every sleeping  possibility has been occupied and there were fourteen around and five under the Christmas table. Ages around the table ranged from one to eighty-six, with the average being 41 and the mean 31. Those under the table arranged themselves strategically around the one-year-old’s seat and were rewarded for their fealty.

Food came and went with alarming frequency. Most of it chocolate. One dog ate a whole half pound (plus the box), but he is a big dog and the only ill effect we could see seemed to be a day and a half of extremely brisk walks. 

 

And games. Always two tables of games,  from intricate to uproarious. Gone are the days of Monopoly and Parcheesi of my childhood. These games are beautifully crafted, with many pieces, figures, cards, and tokens. The boards are works of art. 

 

I enjoy the background sounds from the games players – laughter, instructions, consternation, thoughtfulness. I play only two of these games, Ticket to Ride and Mexican Train. My favorite is Mexican Train. The tiles feel so smooth, making a satisfying clink when they contact each other, and our trains snake around the table in unpredictable ways. I have searched for the origin of the game and its name, but both are shrouded in uncertainty. There are many sets of rules and ways to play. We follow the real rules.

 

One night six of us started the game late, finishing after midnight. Halfway through thirteen innings I gazed at my recent set of tiles in despair; nothing matched, and I had apparently cornered the market on the high-numbered tiles. I couldn’t achieve an opening move. If you don’t know this game, that all bodes poorly for three related reasons: The chances of my being able to play my tiles were poor; the chances of my having to pick up extra tiles were excellent,

and the chore of adding up my loosing set of tiles at the end would be challenging.  I was a goner.

 

But here’s the thing. I won that doomed hand. Through incredible luck and modest skill, I was the one who went out; the other five racked up the dreaded points. All those high tiles went from my possession out onto the tile trains. One by one, I was able to offload those ominous tiles. When I was down to one, I played it quietly and won the round. 

 

From perceived doom to an unexpected triumph. And after the midnight hour when we had completed all thirteen rounds, and the thirteen scores were added up, I had won the whole game. 

 

So, I am taking this game as an icon for 2025. Immersed in this cold, gray, windy January day, the indications are bleak.  But then, there is hope and laughter and warmth in the mix also. And unexpected changes of fortune. Which will be the way forward?  

 

And I go back to those under the table, waiting at the feet of the one-year-old’s chair – their hope is fulfilled by her happy collaboration, the laws of gravity, and random bits that fall unexpectedly from the sky.

 

That’s where I hope to live in 2025.

 

 

 

 

 

The wild side

                                             

 We live on the edge between downtown and more wooded outer areas, and we are accustomed to bears and bobcats that keep the bird feeder and rabbit populations in check. We have seen many bears on our sidewalks and driveway, but alas the bobcat has stayed out of our view, although there are photos and videos of it in our neighbors' yards. Foxes too – they trot along the street, dangling breakfast for the eager young ones at home on the next block. Rabbits run rampant, and some even survive and preside over the yard with heft and confidence. Skunks saunter; chipmunks skitter; squirrels tantalize the dog. 

Niko the dog is a champion snoozer, but one morning not too long ago he came to instantaneous and maximum alert. Something was banging on a sunroom window. I easily saw the object of his attention. It was too big to be one of the wasps that chance across the sunroom doorway. And quite clunky as it repeatedly bashed into the window, trying to escape. And – there was a soft, sad cheep. I wondered if the cicadas had invaded our northeastern city, but closer inspection revealed a hummingbird, desperate to get through the glass, back into hospitable territory. Meanwhile the dog leapt excitedly at this new intruder: A welcome? A warning? Breakfast?

I tried to trap it with a glass and cardboard, our bee capture equipment, but I wasn't tall enough to reach it safely. I shouted for help, but the help did not hear my cries. I finally took a newspaper and wafted it away from the window; the bird went with the draft and, in an instant, was free and happy once more. That's when the help arrived.

Later that day the sleeping dog once again went from comatose to high alert in a twinkling, He stared out the window; I followed his gaze. A deer, a young doe, had come prancing up our driveway. There was no exit for her there; she stood and assessed her situation, and while my head was turned, she left as she came, unseen. I checked the front street but she wasn't in sight. I hope she quickly found her way back to the dingle across the street, safe with her mates.

So Niko had double excitements that day, but for me, the rule of three prevailed. Later that evening  as we strolled the yard for last outs, my eyes adapted to the dark.  A  lightening bug! Then another, and yet another. and more. Ten to fifteen, maybe more, blinking their way in the night, calling to one another, seeking company. I could have stayed another hour, caught in this world of  quiet and peaceful communication by light. But it began to gently rain and the dog tired of harassing  rabbits; we  retreated to the house and the day drew to a close. 

What do fireflies do in the rain? Do they seek safety? Do they continue their search for one another?  Do they pull up into a safe shelter and rest? Are they knocked senseless, even lifeless, by cannonball sized  bits of water?

Night after night, across the street, down in the dingle, the foxes and bears and bobcat and raccoons and opossums and deer forage and rest, planning for, hoping for, the next day. Up the hill,  at last outs, the lights survive for now, dependent on the season and weather. A bat has joined the evening sky. My hope is that it will prefer the mosquitos that share the yard and let the lightening bugs roam freely.  Maybe the bat carries a dim memory that fireflies taste bad and are poisonous. 

At any rate,  Niko and I are in love with these early summer nights, he with his nose down, checking out who has invaded his domain, and I with my eyes up, searching for the on-again/off-again bursts of light.  In spite of the rain, and surviving the eager bat, they are gifts that surprise and silently speak of wonder as daylight fades and takes us into the darkness of night. 

So here's to freedom for the hummingbird, home for the deer, diligence in searching out mates for the fireflies, and small glimpses of light shining through the darkness for us all.

February Leaves

I have never been very fond of autumn: light on the wane, cold advancing, color dimming. Not to mention, classes starting. So, while the conversational world is full of guessing when the peak weekend for fall color might be, I hunker down and count the days until the winter solstice, when daylight would begin tolengthen, sharing its promises of where it will take us.

My dog Niko and his friend Sunny celebrate an October rite of passage. They run and leap into piles of dried leaves, just for the fun of it, for the feeling of the sudden splash into another realm, hiding for a few seconds, and then popping backup into the ordinary world.  I know this feeling, because I did it as a child. For Niko and Sunny, though, there are also hidden discoveries, tennis balls in the leaves, and small treats to root around for and find (or not) as a proper reward for having a good time with friends. We humans play god to the dogs, with our rakes and tricks, showing them that there are joy and gems to be found and friends to laugh with

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But an interesting thing happened this late winter. Snow receded; the time not yet changed. I find I have fallen in love with dead and dry, curved and wrinkly leaves that have spent the last few months under the snow cover. I stroll the yard and the streets with Niko, and every leaf I see seems more eye catching than the previous, I pick one up, turn it over, admire it, and decide whether to bring it home. No offense, little leaf, I say to it if I replace it to its original resting place, it's just that maybe this is where you belong.

School children gather the brightly colored leaves of October; I have done that in the past with children, preserving the colors and shapes by dipping them in melted wax or ironing them between sheets of wax paper. No doubt, October reds and yellows do have a very deep allure.

But now, I have a bowl full of February leaves.  They are infinitely different in their size, shape, shade, and brittleness. Some are torn, broken, or stepped on. They are beautiful and interesting in their dotage; they have personality. I arrange them for portraits. Singly, can I get the twists and folds right? The color? In groups, which ones belong next to each other? Does it matter if they are arranged, tossed, or jumbled?

In the end, it is the variety of how each leaf shows at this stage of its life that I most admire. There is no limit. Like snowflakes there are no two alike. Like snowflakes, they each tell of their own journeys. And, like snowflakes, they will, in time, change shape, break apart, to share their essence elsewhere. Their atoms will move together in new ways, form new molecules, unite in new forms. Places to go, atoms to meet.

That part, yet to come I can imagine but future details are hidden. My job, at the moment, seems to be to take notice of unexpected beauty, as it lets me see into the secrets of other worlds. That's my way. Meanwhile, come next October, Niko and Sunny will engage once again in their own other worlds, leaping, and finding surprise treasures down in the depths and the dark of the leaf pile.

From the yard.

Turn left at the corner

My dog Niko is a trained and certified therapy dog and reading partner, 

which means he (and I) can go into nursing homes, assisted living residences, libraries, and schools to visit, do tricks, read aloud, or just lie around and be funny and/or comforting, whichever the situation calls for. So, when we pass someone on a walk, he stops and gazes expectantly at the passerby. That’s his job, to invite people into relationship, and he is good at it.

For that reason he has always loved to go onto the local college campus. Students stopped, singly, in small groups, and in droves, and asked – "Can I pet your dog?" Niko's response was to lean in, to sit, lie down, or turn belly up, always receiving laughter and delight in return. Students would compliment him and talk about how much they missed their dogs. "He chose ME!" they would exclaim if he lingered longer by one, melt into a prone position, and display his belly. 

 

Then COVID came. The campus emptied out. Niko  still preferred to turn left at the end of the block to go onto the campus, but it was disappointing; squirrels and an occasional rabbit were all he could find to divert his attention, but he had those at home. He missed his students, but each time we turned left; he is a dog of unquenchable hope. 

Then COVID receded! Students came back, and Niko stepped a little lighter when we turned onto the campus, where he spotted once again his pals, his fans, his reason to be! But here is the thing. After two years of COVID, of isolation, of mixed messages about how COVID spread (You might get it if you pet a dog!), the students now take no notice of Niko. They don’t pet him, or stop to reminisce about the dogs they left at home. They hurry past, phones at their faces, looking neither left nor right and certainly not at the expectant dog, who goes stock still when he spots one student or a gang, looking up at their faces, invitingly, even pathetically, slowly wagging his tail in gentle invitation. Students are now complete in themselves and their phones. 

Lucky for Niko, the occasional staff person does still stop and R. S. V.P. to Niko's invitation, and they talk about how he can smell their dog(s), or offer him a biscuit, or sadly tell about the dg they recently lost; some proudly describe the cat or two or three at home, waiting patiently for their return home at days end. 

 So there you have it: The therapy dog eager to be in relationship, the students fearful, unnoticing, isolated. But in spite of two snowstorms in the last week, each bringing seven inches of snow to our north side of the hill, there is no doubt that the season is turning and the spring display of new life is not far distant. Snowdrops have been seen; a few benighted crocuses are poking their purple flowers up through the melting snow.  

I would like to promise Niko that the students, too, will not be able to resist the call to warmth and welcome, and Niko will have his job back again. And he, possessing a hope and faith in the goodness of the world unrivaled by any religious adherent, will continue his insistence that we turn left at the corner.   Students, staff, squirrels, rabbits. The world is always full of lovely new possibilities.

January 1, 2023

Two friends and I agreed on a new year's resolution for 2022; my daughter chimed in with a variation. We agreed to take a picture each day and post it on Instagram. No saving up photos for future use, no mining past photo collections on the dull dreary days. The photos didn't have to be the greatest, but they had to be from that day.

And for the first time in my life, I carried through on a new year's resolution from January 1 to December 31! 

                  Nancy Lowry

Starting in my single digit years, I have most always vaguely and halfheartedly chosen a resolution because I assumed that's the way the world worked, and I wanted to be part of a world that worked. In my teens it was most likely about losing weight or being more charming (!), maybe even snagging a date or two. On into the twenties and upward, it was most likely about eating better or being a nicer, friendlier person. As my fifties and sixties rolled in, it was about writing a daily list of things to be thankful for, or drawing a picture a day, or even drawing a picture a day of things I was thankful for. Somewhere in my sixties and seventies, I lapsed. January 1^st  would roll around and I would dither, spend a few moments digging into hopeful changes I could make in my life, review my previous years of utter failure at keeping to the resolution discipline, and decide it was futile, vain, or even silly, Then a friend suggested the picture-a-day resolution. I agreed because I like photography and I wanted to support my friend. Another friend joined in. My daughter saw the potential interest and joined on her own schedule. And we were off. 

As someone who never saw a rule that wasn't asking to be circumvented or ignored, I was hopeful. And
almost right away, I knew this was going to work. It is encouraging to have the same goals as others. Each day, I was eager to see where others (our little crew on Instagram and others who shared photos by email or text) were going, what caught their eye, what they posted. And everywhere I went, I was seeing things with new eyes, new possibilities, new wonder. Sometimes, when I was ready to call it a day, I would realize that I had not done my photo, and just as quickly realized there was plenty of interest and imagination left in the day I thought had drawn to a close; I wandered outside in the dark with a light or set up a still life indoors with odds and ends.

I was unable to drive for seven months of this past year. and during that time, family and friends took me on photo-op field trips, sometimes on the prowl for new opportunities, sometimes to their favorite haunts; I am so grateful to them for these expeditions. Closer to home, I grew intrigued by the variety and beauty hiding in the nooks and crannies in the yard, underfoot, on the block, within walking distance. The mundane emerged with new glory and possibilities. 

Our little band of photographers has re-upped for a second year. What will it be like the second time around? Will the luster have faded? Have I seen it all? Taxed my resolve to the max?

A year ago, a friend used the Mary Oliver poem "Instructions for Living a Life" as the focal point for one of his photography exhibits:

   Pay attention.
   Be astonished.
   Tell about it.

Somewhere in the middle of my first year of taking a daily photograph and sharing it, Mary Oliver's simple set of instructions crystallized and became my own. Second time around, I will be paying attention. I will undoubtedly be astonished. And I will continue to take great pleasure in sharing my work and seeing other peoples' visions of what matters to them. 

Connecticut River, June 2022
Copyright Nancy Lowry

 A Christmas Eve Blessing

Making my rounds, delivering odds and ends of Christmas offerings to odds and ends of households, I pulled in to a Dunkin Donuts, as I had been short of breakfast. I placed my order, and the unseen voice on the intercom said. “That will be one fifty one, Sweetheart. “

 

Sweetheart! I am not sure anyone has ever called me Sweetheart. Totally charmed, I way over-tipped! 

 

I continued on my way, stopping here, there, and a few other places. It was a very fine morning, I passed many elderly dogs walking their people, people waiting for busses – maybe even a bus my granddaughter was driving; people running, biking, strolling. The radio was playing Christmas carols, reading lessons, asking us to remember the lonely and the unloved and calling for unity, peace, and goodwill among all. The voice on the radio called us “beloved,” if not sweethearts – they mean the same thing, after all.

 

Joy to the World! Yes! Time out from the news.  I sing in the car with the choristers; no one will hear and discourage my vocal additions. But then again, we sound great together.

 

My last stop was at a temporarily empty house; the resident cat, elderly and lame, was embarking on his final journey to that other shore, to the greater light. As I place my envelope by the door, I worry that I am intruding on grief and sadness. But – the carols continue, and I continue singing, and I know that darkness does indeed give way to light. Sweethearts all.

 

It was the greatest of Christmas Eve blessings – the anonymous voice, totally unexpected: “Sweetheart!” There were, for sure, many sweethearts on the road that Christmas Eve day, driving up for their coffee and donuts, driving off as sweethearts in the world.