And so we dream of adventuring And store the travel brochures in shoeboxes on our closet shelves And fall asleep singing to ourselves “on the shores of Mandalay where the flying fishes play” And then find a man who has a compass in his heart too Who hears the seagulls flying over Illinois corn fields And in time We take flight So many places with strange sounding names… Now in this octogenarian decade The names still call to us, like sirens on the rocks All those points not yet seen or touched But the bed also sets up a steady hum Home, it hums, home, stay here, be warm Snuggle down in the sleek sheets Never move again Outside in the winter moonlight, the Lorelei sing Kristin Moyer January 2024
Blog
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Wanderlust
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January 8th, 2024
I am taking down my Christmas tree, two days after 12th Night, on the 8th day of January, and I am thinking of my mother, who was the creator of Christmas celebrations in my family when I was growing up.
She was the first generation American in her family, with both parents immigrating from Sweden, and she brought to her marriage all the Swedish traditions of Yuletide celebrations—- evergreens and a fir tree in the house, packages wrapped in white and tied with red ribbon, a Yulbord on Christmas Eve.
When my mother was growing up, there were journeys by a horse-drawn sleigh across the snow-covered fields to midnight services on Christmas Eve at the little Lutheran church in central Minnesota. Santa arrived at their home to the tune of sleigh bells. Family gathered on Christmas Eve, and extended family gathered for Second Day of Christmas.
My father came from an English/Scots-Irish family in Arkansas, and I don’t think his mother made much fuss over Christmas at all.
But my mother did, and she inculcated her four children with the rituals of a Swedish Christmas, though we never celebrated St. Lucia’s Day. We carried my mother’s traditions forward into our own families when we married.
All the ornaments now are off my tree, including the very old glass ornaments stored in a box labeled in my mother’s hand-writing, For Bill and Kristin. Now I am struggling with untangling the six strands of white lights from the tree, which has dried out terribly. It stopped taking up water at some point.
My lower back is hurting. I have to sit down for a bit. I am 81 years old, three years younger than my mother who died on this day, January 8th, 1992, thirty-two years ago. I was at the hospital when she died. My sister and my two children were were there, too. It was a bright sunny January day.
The last strands of lights are off the tree, and I spread a sheet on the living room floor, press my foot on the lever of the German made tree stand, and gently lift and lower the dried out tree to the sheet.
I haul the awkward tree bundle out of the living room, squeezing past furniture, and out the kitchen door, thinking of my mother on this anniversary of her death.
Not long ago, I read that a person’s life span is not measured by the actual number of years lived, but by the ripples they created during their lives.
If I look at the ripples my mother created with her Christmas rituals alone, those ripples will go on for a very long time.
My older brother had two children, and they have four children total. I have two children, and they have three children total. My sister has two children and one of those sons has four children. Even if only small pieces of my mother’s traditions are carried forward, there are eleven in the newest generation to be the bearers.
I drop the tree bundle on the kitchen patio. It now is almost dark. Tomorrow I will put the tree up in a corner of the yard, to be a winter shelter for the little birds.
I look up at the dark sky, and turn back to the house. Lots of clean up still to do.
January 8, 2024
Kristin Moyer
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Winter Dreams
For those of you who grew up with winter snows: May your dreams be filled with the snows of childhood With snow angels and snow men With sledding on nearby hills and trying out new Christmas skis With the taste of brittle snow candy made by pouring hot maple syrup on fresh snow With the smell of wet mittens drying out on radiators And with the sound of snow falling softly all around you in the winter's night. Sleep well, sweet dreams.
January 2, 2024
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Live Slowly, Move Simply, Look Softly
My house sitter Marcie knows how to relish and savor my home on the hill, perhaps better than I do, because I always have a long list of jobs I must do. I look around the garden and see all the weeds I must pull. Marcie who also is a gardener looks and sees the flowers.
In the mornings when Marcie is at my house, she likes to take her mug of freshly brewed coffee outside to sit on the wooden bench under the maple tree. Kali my old dog is still inside, asleep and snoring. From the bench Marcie can see all the birds who flock to the feeders: the cardinals in the bright coats, the chickadees who bob through the air, and the tufted titmice who wait on the branches. Sometimes the bluebird darts inside its special feeder for its treat of dried mealworms, and the downy woodpecker taps at the suet feeder. On the rough bark of the maple the white breasted nuthatch hops headfirst down the trunk, seeking insects.
The world is filled with jubilant birdsong. Under the feeders the gray squirrels and chipmunks compete for fallen seeds. One morning Marcie was sitting so silently that the red fox who has a den by the fence came to the feeder for fallen seeds. It sensed Marcie’s presence, raised its head, and looked directly into her eyes before it turned and ran.
I think I must take my own mug of coffee and sit on the bench under the maple tree and open myself to the quiet morning.
Kristin Moyer
Written September 2013–posting November 2023
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Gratitude 2023
November 8, 2023 she swabs my shoulder briskly and I look away as the needle sinks in recalling my gratitude for that first Covid shot and then the second one that released me into daylight and hugs today is my seventh Covid shot pushing my shirtsleeve down walking into the sunshine of my world on this bright November day now missing 1,136,920 of my people due to Covid-19 less we forget no taps will be played remember them Kristin Moyer
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Ritual of Candle Lighting: Joys and Sorrows
November 5, 2023 Lining up in silence while the music plays Holding the taper to the small candle in the sand Silent with joy or sorrow, intent on the job and the moment All woven fine And the tiny flame catches and glows And the candle passes down the ranks of the waiting To the old To the young To men To women To those of no gender at all To white, to black, to colors in between From hand to waiting hand Sometimes with a smile Sometimes somberly But the flame passes From hand to hand Kristin Moyer
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Sweden
June, 2023
I am sitting in the car which my cousin Kristina is driving along the highway, through the fields and woods of Vestergotland, near the shores of the great Lake Vanern.
I am looking out the car window at the landscape where my grandmother was born, and my great-grandmother, and her mother.
And then I am suffused with a sense of peace…I breathe in and out, not saying a word.
It is as though my eyes are absorbing the landscape and then transmitting the view to all the cells in my body, down to the mitochondria beating out energy, these cells inherited from my mother, and in turn inherited from her mother, and through all the women in my maternal line.
This great peace fills every part of my body. I feel my heart beat slowing.
It is a though my body has recognized this land, and every cell within me is saying
“You are home.”
It is like nothing I have ever felt before. And the moment passes, and we drive on.
Kristin Moyer
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Vigil
I have been here before No more desire to eat No more desire to drink Comforted by the warmth of bed My beloved husband was dying and I did not spend every minute with him Too busy trying to keep it all rolling Calling friends to come see him Doing laundry for gods sake While children and friends sat with him Though in the night I was there beside him The hospital bed pushed next to ours So I could touch him And hear the change in his breathing… There is that So now I stay in this room On a bright May day With my dying cat My sweet boy during the pandemic No more desire to eat No more desire to drink Comforted by the warmth of bed Kristin Moyer May 27, 2023
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Mother’s Day 2023
Sitting under the snowbell tree-- Around me the patio covered With blossoms the color of old bridal veils The sweet scent rising I am remembering the birth of my first child Brought into the world after hours of labor “Hello Tiny Tim!” said my doctor And then they bore him away Not to be given to me until half a day later And my second baby Arriving like the whirlwind after induced labor Laid on my belly as they rolled the gurney Down the hallway “Welcome to the world, my daughter” My blood pressure dropping And no men allowed those days Relegated to the waiting rooms 20th Century births The blossoms fall like gentle rain I pick one up from my lap It is as delicate As lovely As mysterious As those babies Born so many years ago --Kristin Moyer
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A Lesson in Dying
I spend way more time on Facebook than I should, but there are rewards. Today there was a long list of Facebook posts I had made, from previous years.
This was the last post on the list, from thirteen years ago.
“May 2, 2010: Today Bill planted four tomato seedlings. Emma and I went swimming, even though it was 64 degrees.”
Bill was in the garden, planting tomatoes. The tumors were growing in his abdomen. He knew he was dying, and that it was very likely he would not see those tomatoes bear fruit. Nor would he eat any of it. But he believed in the future and the goodness of home-grown tomatoes. The cancer slowed him down, but it did not stop him from living. Bill knew he was fortunate, that not everyone could keep going.
Eleven weeks later on July 14, 2010, Bill died, in our bedroom, surrounded by family, held by love.
And in late summer, I harvested the tomatoes that he had planted.
May 2, 2023