I drive through downtown Orange about once a month on the way to and from a medical appointment in Charlottesville. On my last two trips in October and November the weather was unseasonably warm. I noticed a gentleman sitting in a lawn chair outside his Barber Shop, waving to passers-by. I waved back. Each time I tried to work up the courage to stop and talk, maybe take a photograph. Both times, my confidence wavered and I drove on.

For my December visit, there was snow on the ground. I seriously doubted the barber would sit outside in this weather. Still, I drove by, looking for his friendly smile and wave. And there he was! Standing inside, peering out through the large picture window of his shop, waving at me. I pulled over and parked my car in a nearby shopping center lot. Bundled up, I walked down the street, carrying my camera. When I reached his shop, I stood across the street and waved to him. I pointed to my camera and pantomimed some expression of “May I take your picture?”. He nodded, yes, and I snapped a few frames.

Then the barber exited his shop. He watched the traffic patiently and when the course was clear, he motioned for me to cross the busy Madison Road. We went inside his shop where he welcomed me with kindness, and introduced himself as Sonny. He showed me an article from the local newspaper about him, a beacon of small-town warmth, and his business, the longest running self-employed business, over 40 years, in the county.

Maybe I’m reading too much into this picture. Maybe I’m projecting my own feelings of quarantine fatigue. But this picture reads as loneliness to me. How many of us are waving and waiting for someone to visit?

“The shame of loneliness feels like the shame of hunger, of want, of admitting you cannot feed yourself. This is not an epidemic, but a famine”. —Claire Bushey, Loneliness and Me

 

“The world is changed by your example, not by your opinion.” — Paulo Coelho

I am blessed by wise friends who show me a better way.

They’ve taught me the skills required for solid friendships. They remind me that darkness gives way to light. They listen, even when I get carried away. They see and believe in my innate goodness and forgive my faults. They fill me up and send me out into the world to love and learn and help. I try to do the same for them.

In this season of gift-giving, hemmed in by fear and isolation, the gift we need most is friendship. To each friend I say with my whole heart, I love you dearly and I wish you a lovely Christmas and a fresh new year.

 

I am surprised by how the world reveals itself to me. I drive to a doctor’s appointment and I am almost late because I keep pulling off to take pictures. An icy freeze has baptized every surface, and it feels as though I am driving through a glistening snow globe.

holiday cookies . . .

I honestly cannot recall a Christmas when I did not make these sugar cookies (at least, not since I became a mother 33 years ago). The recipe is simple. A holiday classic. Over the years I’ve honed the process of rolling out the dough and cutting the cookies. The secret is to refrigerate the dough well and roll it out between two sheets of wax paper. To keep the paper from slipping away, I fold the edge over the counter and hold it securely by leaning in with my body. The work is soothing. Handling the dough, soft and pliable. Pressing the cookie cutter down into the dough until there is that satisfying crunch of sugar against metal edge, grit-like. Sprinkling sugar over the cookie shapes knowing full well it’s going everywhere and not caring. Sliding the cookies in the oven and setting the timer for 10 minutes. Is that long enough to snap a few pictures? I guess so. I package the cookies carefully for family and friends. To sweeten the season and bring warm memories.