December 18, 2003

Shivers

Deodar (the Indian cedar of recent OoN fame) is planted just outside a large north-facing wall of double-hung windows topped by a peaked clerestory of fixed panes. The effect looking through all this glass is as if there is no enclosure at all, only distant rooftops and sky or rain or clouds.

Of late, and in deference to the season, a large cut Douglas fir is mounted just inside and rather overlooking Deodar. It is bedecked only with the characteristic multicolored lights and with only a small, but jaunty and beribboned hand basket raked at its top where one normally expects an angel or a star.

Deodar wears only tiny clear and bright jeweled lights, patiently, as if this too will pass. Indeed, of course, it will. The fir will be gone by Epiphany, shredded to help cover the lakeside paths in a nearby city park. Deodar will not disrobe its lights soon enough — an invisible shiver following suit — and then proudly to remain for other years.

It is not difficult to experience a similar feeling, a mild chill at the thought of decades of Christmases past and perhaps fewer than one, if at all, of decades to come. Shivering is the way one’s body warms itself by calling small muscles into concert. Perhaps anxious celebration is the way one’s spirit warms itself by blanketing small memories into harmony.

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