Collect, Recollect, Rest

Our Ride-ha

The daughter left yesterday. But not before we went into the forest and traipsed through a foot of snow to find and cut a fir, drummed up the sun on solstice and lit a fire as it set, decorated said tree, wandered around Taos and Santa Fe Plazas, watched the Broncos with Susan and Larry, ate tamales, slurped my homemade posole, ate more red chile than was legal, hiked the Rio Grande Gorge rim, photographed bighorn sheep, visted Seco and Hondo, and picked up the fallen tree that laid like a prickly green whale on the floor of the sun room. Then we picked it up again. And again. By the time it fell the third time all of my favorite decorations were smashed to smithereens. Daisy Duck's webbed feet, decked out in red high heels, were cut off at the ankle. Never did find the rest of her.

It was all about energy. Hope and I had some unfinished mother/daughter business that made the place a little tippy. The end of the Mayan calendar weighed heavily as well. Not to mention the  floor in the sun room with a definite slope. I figured it was a lesson in letting go. No matter that the decorations were tradition, aesthetically pleasing or they brought comfort and security to my spirit. Don't we always have good reasons for holding on?

CRASH. Once, twice, three times.

Let it go.

Well, most of it. I refused to jettison the bear poop. I figured my experience of running into my beastly friend in a P-J forest as she scavenged pinon nuts trumped longevity and habit. I'm the one who tied the red ribbon around it and hung it from the tree 18 years ago. I've had good bear mojo ever since, including grizzlies.

So first I let go of the decorations and a few days later I let go of the Datter who was on her way to Eugene, Oregon for a graduate program in green city planning. I love the synchronicity of that choice. In 1987 I drove her Eugene for her undergrad work in journalism. Now she's off to Oregon Duck-land to lay the groundwork for life's calling. Brave young woman.

Never did find the rest of Daisy. She must be still be hanging from who-knows-what-body-parts. But come Candlemas, February 2nd, I'll burn the tree, and she's sure to go up in smoke. Meanwhile, the full moon beams across the snowy land with blinding intensity as Janus winks from his doorway, several days away.

Hope is a thing with feathers
that perches in the soul,
and sings the tune---without the words
and never stops at all...

Emilie Dickinson