Tradition and Joy

As the sunset paints the sky in sherbert hues of pink and orange, I stare out my loft pottery studio window down at the pasture watching the dulled field grass dance in the cold December breeze. I am here, working, creating, thinking, praying, hoping, in my haven, my sacred space. As a woman with too many hats balancing precariously on my being, I find solace and inspiration in this special space. And also in tradition, especially during the Christmas season.

The off-key Christmas songs that once echoed off the walls of a bustling home now linger as echoes in the quiet. Grown children, now scattered like seeds carried by the wind, find themselves planted in soil that was never truly mine. Only borrowed. Their laughter, once woven into the fabric of our celebrations, is now a cherished memory. Yet, even in their absence, the spirit of joy finds a way to wrap itself around the farm like a crochet shawl. It's a quiet joy. Ambient. The kind that sits with peace, chatting nostalgically over tea and cookies. I loved it then! The anticipation, the merriment! But… I am learning to love the now too.

Life on a farm is a dance with the unpredictable. Each day unfolds with the cadence of a poem, yet with verses that are never quite the same. Traditions are sanctuary. The profoundness of the proverbial. Where others see tarnish, I see patina. Where some hear boring, I hear familiar. Where some feel sad, well… I do too, at times. And that is good. The bitter with the sweet. Amid the expected unpredictability, traditions hold as a steady anchor, a reminder that even in the most uncertain moments, there's a constant. There is joy, in the then and maybe in the now too.

As Christmas approaches, my family and I connect however we can. It looks different now. Feels different. But some of our traditions still stand as sentinels of resilience, protecting the legacy woven together. I encourage you to make new traditions and revive old ones. For through repetition, we renew a spirit of hope. And with hope, comes joy.