It's been a weekend of extremes –

Yesterday morning was extremely musical, with a rehearsal that lasted almost half an hour longer than was scheduled. There was much laughter, clandestine coffee drinking, and some actual rehearsing, as well, and I'm beginning to really enjoy a lot of the music we're doing.

Yesterday afternoon was extremely hectic, as we visited Target (for snack trays and a crock pot), Starbucks (for a new coffee maker, as I only had my little French press) and Albertsons, for last minute forgotten items, before having friends over for dinner. It was a delightful evening, and the house felt festive and alive.

Today, partly from too much sugar yesterday, and partly from nerves about tomorrow's return to Corporate America, I was practically comatose all morning, waking after Fuzzy came home from church to ask him to start laundry, sleeping for another couple of hours beyond that, and then finishing the remaining laundry. Since then, I've read a bit, and watched some cheesy Christmas movies, showered, and almost finished compiling the addresses I need for Christmas cards, which will go out in trickles this week. Not very exciting, but a much needed day of rest.

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This was posted today in my fiction blog at Moonchilde, but as it makes a nice post for a Holidailies submission, as well as being my December contribution to The Alchera Project, I'm posting it here too. It's not fiction, so it's allowed to be in the blog. Really.

When I was a little girl, one of my favorite things about Christmas was the tinsel. Those bits of silvery metallic ribbon that we draped over the plastic branches of our four-foot-tall tree seemed like strands of dream stuff, making the tree come alive, just the way that real icicles turn the winter world into fairy land by making everything all a-shimmer.

I remember sitting near the tree, with the lights off in the living room, long after my parents had retired to their room. Of course, I was supposed to be in bed, but perhaps the dog had to go out, or maybe there was just some part of my brain that couldn’t rest. I found peace in the glow of multicolored lights and the refraction caused by tinsel. I found magic in the way it held a static charge – run your fingers along a strand of the stuff, and a spark will form at the end. I found a few minutes of idle pleasure of the kind not dissimilar from the feeling brought on by turning a paperclip into desktop sculpture, by stretching a flat length of tinsel until it was as thin as it could possibly get, and watching the way the surface changed from reflective to flat and opaque, to a dead, lifeless thread of grayish stuff.

The year I was seventeen, my senior year in high school, my love of tinsel died. My mother’s only brother died of lung cancer that year, right around Thanksgiving, the first of many subsequent November deaths in our family. He was older than she was, but not so much so that they hadn’t had good memories of childhood adventures. He was an amazing artist, both with pen and ink, and with a camera. He was a competent craftsman – I still have the walnut toy chest he made for me when I was a toddler, though the scroll piece is missing. I use it at the foot of our bed, as a step for the dogs, as a place to sit to put on shoes (our bed is too tall), and to store odds and ends. (It retains a sweet smell that I cannot place. It’s not cedar-sweet, but neither is it anything like the camphor found in moth balls. I think of it as smelling like my uncle, really.) He taught me how to bait a hook, one year, when he and my grandfather took my cousin and me fishing off the fisherman’s pier. He had a voice thick with fallen dreams and made for telling stories, and I’m sad that I never knew him as an adult, that he was, at the time he died, little more than a name to me. But I was named for him (he called from where he was AWOL in Canada to instruct my mother not to give me HIS name, as he felt it was cursed, so she used the first letter instead), and I suppose I’ve always felt it was a sort of bond between us. And he loved tinsel. He loved tinsel so much that when my mother and her siblings were growing up, putting the tinsel on the tree was his special job, just as in my house, it was mine.

The first Christmas after he died, my mother bought tinsel, intending to wait til Christmas Eve to put it on the tree, leaving the tree glitter-free until then, in remembrance. Somehow, we never managed to take the step and actually open the package, and it was stored away with the Christmas things for the next year. We didn’t open it then, either, or any year thereafter, and somehow, over the years, the memorial act of not putting tinsel on the tree became habit, and then tradition.

This year, staring at my tree, I can’t help but think of my uncle, of my mother, celebrating Christmas in her newly built house, each of us separated from family during this holiday, and a part of me wants to buy a box of tinsel and strew it over the branches. I won’t, of course, because I have small dogs who like to investigate everything, and a strand of tinsel swallowed or otherwise ingested can kill an animal. And yet, even though I’ve not purchased tinsel in the eleven Christmases I’ve spent with Fuzzy, even though it’s been almost twenty years since any ornament of mine has been near the silvery stuff, a few stray strands make it onto my tree.

I’ve come to think of them as a message from my restless, artistic uncle, who died without finding his real niche – part warning, part understanding – since I’m much the same. To me, the metallic icicles are a voice from beyond.

To others, I guess they’re just tinsel.

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There's nothing worse than job hunting over the holidays, except perhaps starting a new job. In all my running around to HR meetings this week, I've seen people dressed for company parties, or decorating trees, or, at one branch of the company, a table with an electric menorah and a dreidle, and pamphlets explaining the history of Hannukah, and it makes me feel isolated, because as a new hire, I won't get to go to any of these events.

Sitting in the HR lobby this afternoon, I had the opportunity to watch many people. While I was there simply to have my fingerprints logged as part of the new hire process, some employees visited the same department to have their access badges re-activated, or, in the case of one man who gripped his cell phone with worried knuckles and left soft-pitched messages assuring his wife everything would be okay, to be fired. (I know this because he was ordered to stay in view while someone was sent to fetch his personal items.)

There were also about ten prospective employees, all interviewing for customer service positions, all nervous and freshly-washed, like children anticipating the first day of school, all about twenty-five, and most already at the peaks of their careers, even though it was only customer service.

And then there was Gregory. Oh, that's not his name (which I overheard, but will not repeat), but it's a name that suits him, and so I use it here.

Gregory sat separate from the others, his long wool coat draped over his knees, his posture perfect, even in the mushy chairs, which were too low even for me. His suit was dark, impeccably chosen, obviously expensive. His voice, when he spoke, was made of two parts experience and one part refinement. His hair was greying, his eyes were deep blue, as was his tie. His nose was red, when he walked in, but I attributed that to the weather, and the chilly walk across the parking lot.

He walked in with an air of quiet confidence that the other interviewees didn't posses, apologized in soft but firm tones for being late due to road conditions, and then reminded the receptionist (a dead ringer for Christopher Lowel, minus about fifty pounds), that he'd called to let them know he'd be late, as the roads were closed where he lived, and that while the drive had been long, he understood if it was necessary to reschedule. (When I overheard that, and the tinge of weariness in his voice, I wanted it not to be necessary. I wanted them to walk out and smile, and tell him everything would be all right, and mean it.)

From behind the relative safety of the internal corporate newspaper, which was the only available reading material other than the phone book, I watched him, noting the age lines in his face, but that he held himself with pride, the perfect manicure, the pressed suit. I wondered why such a person would be interviewing with the branch of the company where we were sitting, for jobs that were clearly entry level. I made up stories of tragic loss – his wife had died, he was a recovering alcoholic, he was a jazz musician who needed a stable income – any number of possibilities. I wanted to ask him, but knew it would be rude, so when I finished my paper and he finished his, I asked, “Want to trade?” and we did (they were different editions, each about eight pages long.)

I left the room before he did, and when I returned he was already gone, hopefully for a nice, long, successful interview. Later, when I spoke with my mother, I asked her why he might have been there, and she reminded me, “Honey, the fact that he was, as you guessed, at least fifty, is enough.”

It is terrifying to hunt for a job at the age of thirty-five. How much more so to be fifteen years beyond that, and forced to start your life over? I don't think I'd have been as calm. I wish him well, the man I will make myself think of as Gregory, and hope for the best.

Laughing on the bus
Playing games with the faces
She said the man in the gabardine suit was a spy
I said â™be careful his bowtie is really a cameraâ™

â™toss me a cigarette, I think thereâ™s one in my raincoatâ™
â™we smoked the last one an hour agoâ™
So I looked at the scenery, she read her magazine
And the moon rose over an open field.
–Simon & Garfunkel, America

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At one time, compulsory (or “school”) figures were a required element of competitive figure skating, so much so that the precise lines etched into the ice by thin metal blades, and analyzed with magnifying glasses by well-bundled judges, were not only worth 60% of a skater's total score, but also gave the sport it's name.

I thought about these ice tracings, the perfect circles and figure eights that are no longer required, as we drove to my HR appointment today, to fill out a seemingly endless stack of forms for my new job (with more form-filling and fingerprinting taking place tomorrow afternoon). Above me, the sky was icy silver, metallic grey, and powdery blue, blended as with one of those little rakes used in desktop Zen gardens. The strokes across the sky were so evenly spaced, to delicately formed, that I decided they must be a cosmic form of school figures, left for the human eye to examine, and leading to a peaceful place within the human soul.

Later, as I was signing my name for at least the seventy-fifth time, I decided that these forms were my personal school figures, that each one represented a fine line etched into the ice of of my professional life. I don't believe any company needs five different information security agreements any more than I believe being able to skate a perfect figure eight makes a skater any more artistic, but I accept the requirement, and by casting it in a framework of something I enjoy – though, admittedly, I'm a watcher when it comes to skating, and my own skates lie dusty and unused at the top of the hall closet – it became bearable. Suddenly, I found pleasure in the lines and loops of my signature, intead of mere tedium.

On the way home, as icy sleet formed a sizzling curtain around the car, I was unable to see the patterns in the sky, but I traced them in my head, and realized that even though I'm already feeling trapped by a job I haven't even started, it's not a feeling that will last forever.

After all, school figures aren't even taught to figure skaters, anymore.

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K. asked for an explanation of plainsong in response to one of my recent entries about choir practice. Basically, it's a form of liturgical choral singing, in which the meter is free and there is only one “part” or “voice” (aka unison).

Gregorian Chant is a kind of plainsong, but not all plainsong is chant. Some of it is actually pretty melodic.

Here's a more technical description, from Wikipedia.org:

Broadly speaking, plainsong is the name given to the body of traditional songs used in the liturgies of the Catholic Church. The liturgies of the Orthodox Church, though in many ways similar, are generally not classified as plainsong, though the musical form is nearly as old as Christendom itself.

Plainsong is monophonic, and is in free rather than measured rhythm. Gregorian chant is a variety of plainsong that was standardized by Pope Gregory I in the 6th century CE, and represents the first revival of musical notation after knowledge of the ancient Greek system was lost. Plainsong notation differs from the modern system in having only four lines to the staff and a system of note-shapes called neumes.

There was a significant plainsong revival in the 19th century CE when much work was done to restore the correct notation and performance-style of the old plainsong collections, notably by the monks of the Abbaye de Solesmes in Northern France. The use of plainsong is now mostly confined to the Monastic Orders.

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In the nearly eleven years that I've been married, I've taken to decorating my Christmas tree in stages, which is why it's been in my living room since Sunday, but is still not finished.

The first stage is just bringing it in the house. As our tree is plastic, this isn't terribly difficult. It just means five minutes of gyrating through the garage, and three minutes of work with a steak knife, cutting off last year's tape.

Then, we put it together, and plug it in. Because Fuzzy hates stringing lights on trees, and I hate untangling them at the end of the holidays, we invested in a pre-lit tree last year, and I'm still in love with it. Just as other people do with their cut trees, we let ours 'rest' overnight, with just the lights, before any ornaments are put on.

After the resting stage, we begin with the ornaments. When I was little, my mother and I would sit together, and open them all, and as each ornament went on the tree, we would talk about it – where it came from (a gift, a trip we took, etc.), and what it means – most of my ornaments represent some facet of my personality, and I've tried to incorporate Fuzzy into them as well. A tiny ballerina came from my very first Christmas present EVER, for example, and an angel sitting on a crescent moon is a piece from the mobile that hung over my crib when I was a baby.

As I've grown older, I've acquired enough ornaments to fill three plastic totes, including the sun and solar system, from Jeremy a couple years ago, a carousel frog and carousel lion from my aunt, last year, and the glass “rubber ducky” in a Santa hat that I added this year, along with a mermaid, and two seahorses, all in glass as well. I love the glass ones, but I also collect Santa Claus ornaments, and most of those are wooden.

Three totes worth is quite a lot of ornaments, almost too many for our seven-foot tree, but I can't bear to part with any, because they all have meaning. Even the little wooden basketball players are important, as they remind me of a Christmas spent with my grandparents, when my mother and I had to replace all their ornaments, because most had been dispersed among their children.

When the ornaments are all on the tree, with the back of the tree holding those that are out of favor for one reason or another, I let it rest again, and just enjoy the effect. It's amazing how little figurines on strings combine with twinkle lights to turn a plastic tree into something magical.

Finally, I wrap the tree skirt around the base, and pile presents underneath, or, if there's room, set up a train around the base (I've loved trains since I was a little girl, building model railroads with my grandfather, who graciously let me wear his engineer hat.) I don't use tinsel, not because I don't like it – it's quite pretty in small doses – but because my Uncle Merrell used to be in charge of hanging the tinsel on the family tree, and the year he died, my mother and I left it off our tree as a memorial, and somehow, that decision became a tradition. With the dogs, it's probably better that we don't use the stuff, anyway.

The tree is finished at that point, and stays up til epiphany, or the weekend closest to it, because I like to have the lights and color through New Year's. The house, however, remains decorated for winter, at least through the beginning of February.

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Tonight's rehearsal resulted in an almost perfect blending of voices, in song, and a perfect blending of voices in laughter between songs. I have experienced singing plainsong for the first time, and am learning to find a Zen place in the chant-like responsory passages.

Tomorrow, I will begin a new blending of the facets of my personality: writer and general recluse must compromise with wage earner, as I'm starting a new job on Monday. I'd hesitated to post about it, lest I jinx it, or talk myself out of it. As it is, I must constantly remind myself, “This is not forever, and it does not define me.” (This starts tomorrow when I must go sign forms and have fingerprints taken.)

I will not be listing the name of the company, but the line of work is a familiar one, and I shall leave it at that.

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I say… And you think…?

1. Amazing:: grace
2. Delights:: untold
3. Inspired:: energized
4. Disgusted:: unwashed miscreants
5. You:: me, us
6. Vagina:: monologues
7. Palm:: pilot
8. Sweetheart:: neckline
9. Guilt:: flattery, & bribery
10. More to come:: encore

Unconscious Mutterings is offered weekly at http://subliminal.lunanina.com. Like it? Play along at my site, her site, or your own.

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This morning in church, we sang an anthem that was composed by a member of our congregation. There's something really cool about performing a work with the composer present, and something equally cool about the fact that our choir director is flexible enough that when our tenor (who is female) asked if she could alter her part, he let her try it, and then agreed that her change worked. I love that even though we're doing liturgical music, we get to play a little. It's such a wonderful way to start a morning.

* * * * *

That aside, I'm sitting here sipping caramel apple cider from the local Starbucks, and ripping all my Christmas cds to digital format so I can transfer them to my Zen. Earlier today, at a different Starbucks, I managed to purchase a copy of this year's Christmas mix, which has been elusive. Apparently these mixes are becoming more popular.

* * * * *

I am not currently reading anything. I'm barely surfing blogs*, even. This is not normal for me, but it's stemming from the fact that I really don't know what I want to read. Nothing is appealing just now.

* * * * *

I woke up one day last week with a syncopated version of “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen” in my head, and cannot shake the melody from my mind.

* * * * *

Tonight, we removed the Christmas tree from its box, put it together, shaped it, and moved it into place near the living room window. It's pre-lit and plastic, but even so I like to let it rest over night, before I begin hanging ornaments. I don't usually decorate the tree this early â“ usually I do the house in early December, and the tree about mid-way through, but I'm feeling really sad and isolated this year, and we won't have any family around, and I'm hoping this will help.

* * * * *

I'm creating a bunch of prompts for Holidailies entries I plan to write. Suggestions are welcome, just leave them in comments. I prefer to keep things holiday-themed during this meme, but it's not required.

* * * * *

It's only eleven, but I'm very tired, despite a long nap this afternoon. I think I might go to bed now.

*To my blog-buddies: This is NOT to imply that your blogs are unappealing, at all, or to me, I'm just really not reading anything much right now. I'm not sure why. Please don't be offended. I love you all to bits.

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Rehearsals for the annual Lessons and Carols service at church began last Tuesday evening, in the freezing-cold church where we go every week. I'd never been at the altar before, except for confirmation and communion, so facing the pews was a little jarring, but only a little.

As our congregation is small, we combine with another Episcopal church (which ironically is close to our house, but the one we chose has staff that return phone calls and answer email). They're congregation is also small, and really, the neighborhood doesn't need two Episcopal churches, but ours is very much “high” church, and still uses the 1928 version of the Book of Common Prayer, while the other is a bit more relaxed.

In any case, rehearsal was challenging on Tuesday because I was stuffy-headed, so couldn't hear well, and the only other alto was a very sweet but completely tone deaf member of our regular choir. I try never to sit near her, even though she's completely dear, because she meanders through music the way a drunk wanders a dark alley, but with only two of us, I had no choice. This morning, another of our choir members was in the alto section with me, as was Sister A, from the other church, who has a rich alto voice. The three of us blended well, and ignored our tone-deaf friend, for the most part. However, I'm now a little nervous, because there are two songs during which the sopranos sing a descant and the altos sing the melody in their place, and I'm the only person in the alto section who can hit the high notes. The others drop down an octave, on those pitches. This is FINE when we're not supposed to be carrying the melody, but makes things a bit ponderous when we are. Guess who will be doing LOTS of vocal warm ups and range-stretching exercises in her shower for the next few weeks?

It was nice to chat with Sister A during our down-time. She complimented my range and voice – hers is beautiful. She also mentioned that Fuzzy has a beautiful voice (he does, he does!) but I'm not sure he heard that. He sings bass, if you can imagine. But then, people who've only heard me speaking casually think I have a much higher singing voice than I do.

I spent the evening hemming my surplice so it'd be ready tomorrow. It's the worst hemming job EVER, as I was fighting my own lack of practice with this sewing machine, the machine's desperate need for a tune-up, and cheap thread, and I will probably rip the hem out and re-do it during the week, or have it professionally altered, but for tomorrow, it'll be fine, at least, and there's comfort in the knowledge that, now that we're robing for Mass, I can wear comfy clothes to church because no one will see.

Though, I have a sudden urge for extremely dramatic jewelry.

It's nearly midnight, but it's been a long day – rehearsal at ten, cleaning almost all day, cooked a roast as well, and then sewing (Fuzzy had to help with the replacement needle, and we had to make a trip to find emergency thread), and we have to be back for “normal” choir rehearsal at 8:30 in the morning.

May you all have a restful Sunday, and a fabulous week.

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