Tag: Christmas

Last-Minute Shopping? Think Extravagance

On By Mary KochIn UncategorizedLeave a comment

A well-worn five dollar bill tucked inside a Christmas card is the most extravagant gift I expect to receive this year. It was given to me during my Friday night piano gig at St. James Cathedral Kitchen.

Five nights a week Kitchen volunteers serve a free, hot meal to whomever shows up — usually around two hundred folks or more. By appearances, I’m guessing the patrons include plenty of homeless folks, some elderly residents of subsidized apartments in the neighborhood, maybe a few university students, occasional families with youngsters. And dogs. Dogs on leash are admitted.

I’m one of the pianists who add background ambience, making the church social room feel less institutional with a layer of music under the chatter and clatter of dishes. The piano is one of the most out-of-condition I’ve ever contended with. There’s no bench, but an office chair on wheels. That does not work for me. I haul a couple of cushions on the four-block trek from my apartment to the cathedral. I set them on a folding chair so I can approach the keyboard from a perch that won’t roll away. The keys almost always sound when activated. Who could ask for anything more? 

It is the highlight of my week. I occasionally substitute for pianists on other nights, but Friday is mine.

Friday happens to be the night when Sue and Susan meet up for their weekly dinner together. I do not know their last names, stories or ages (I’m guessing in their sixties, maybe crowding seventy). Nothing about their appearance suggests monetary wealth. I know Sue rides the bus from her home in the south end of Seattle. And I know that they will always, always exclaim after I finish how wonderful my playing was (whether it was or not). 

Last Friday Sue placed an envelope on the piano as I played. When music and dinner were done, I began to open the envelope, anticipating a Christmas card. 

“Careful,” Sue cautioned. Tucked inside the card was the five-dollar bill. 

“I can’t …” I began. 

“Stop!” Sue interrupted. “It’s a gift! You can’t refuse a gift. I wouldn’t give it if I couldn’t afford it.” 

I’ve occasionally supplemented my income with piano and organ gigs. But no payment could top the handwritten message in the card: “To our piano player who myself and Susan love to hear your beautiful music while we have our dinner. You make us feel so comfortable and Happy. From your friends, Sue and Susan”

We talked a little longer. Sue is celebrating that her son just got out of jail, where he spent seven months. It was his girlfriend who got him in trouble, says Sue.

“I told him! No more girlfriend!”

After they left, I handed the five dollars to Mick, who runs the Kitchen, and told him the story. “This was from OUR folks?” he asked, mildly disbelieving. Then he smiled.

Whenever I’m given a gift of cash, I like to tell the giver how I used the money. I’ll enjoy telling Sue — and she’ll enjoy hearing — that I spent her gift on a new book of music that I’ve been wanting. Music that she and others will soon be hearing.

Wait a minute, you may be saying. You gave the money to the Kitchen. Yeah, well, money is an illusion. Gifts from the heart are the real thing. There’s no limit to how much love they can buy.

What’s With the Three Wise Gals?

On By Mary KochIn UncategorizedLeave a comment

During my many decades as a church musician, I’d take a deep breath of gratitude at the arrival of Twelfth Night, either January 5 or 6, depending on who’s counting. Having plowed my way through the annual blizzard of Christmas pageants, carol sing-alongs, renditions of Handle’s “Messiah” and midnight masses, I welcomed the church’s Epiphany — official end of the Christmas season.

In the secular world, Christmas has long since been forgotten by now, buried under New Year’s Eve revelry and (resulting?) “Dry January” resolutions. Meanwhile, in churches Epiphany marks the arrival of the Three Kings. Now a new tradition is taking hold, designating January 6 as “Women’s Christmas.” 

Methodist minister Jan Richardson explains that Women’s Christmas originated in Ireland as Nollaig na mBan, a day when the women, “who often carried the domestic responsibilities all year, took Epiphany as an occasion to celebrate together at the end of the holidays, leaving hearth and home to the men for a few hours.”

A prolific artist and writer, Richardson issues an annual collection of meditations, poetry and illustrations for Women’s Christmas. Her art includes Three Wise Women en route to the manger. (You can see it here.) As I struggle with Christianity’s two millennia of patriarchal oppression, I’m only too happy to see the women gently nudge the old guys aside with their own presence and gifts. For sure, the Kings’ gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh are highly symbolic and precious. In her poem, “Wise Women Also Came,” Richardson notes the equally essential aspect of women’s giving:

“Wise women also came,
and they brought
useful gifts:
water for labor’s washing,
fire for warm illumination,
a blanket for swaddling.”

This past Christmas I received an unusual, unsought gift: a head cold. I’d decided already to spend the day mostly in quiet solitude. December 25 is my late husband’s birthday. I choose to devote at least part of the day in the presence of his spirit and memories of his life. This year his spirit was having to put up with my sniffles and sneezes. Had he been here in person, he’d have made me his curative hot drink of whiskey, honey and lemon. I settled for diluting my coffee with a little brandy. 

I didn’t feel the least bit sorry for myself. I live between two beautiful cathedrals, St. Mark’s and St. James. The previous Sunday — the Fourth Sunday of Advent — I’d managed to visit both. That last Sunday before Christmas, the church pays close attention to two women: Mary and her cousin Elizabeth. In the morning I heard a woman Episcopal priest sermonize on Elizabeth’s wisdom as counselor to her younger cousin. In the evening, at Catholic Vespers, I was immersed in candlelight and incense while contemplating, “Lo! How a rose e’er blooming … with Mary we behold it … ”

I was well prepared for a Christmas that was as quiet as any “Silent Night,” a Christmas that was healing and empowering. I always smile during December days when people ask the standard question: “Are you ready for Christmas?” I inevitably answer, “I’m always ready for Christmas.” Of course we’re probably talking about two very different states of readiness.

Merry Women’s Christmas. 

(Whether you’re female or male, I recommend Richardson’s free Women’s Christmas guide: https://sanctuaryofwomen.com/womenschristmas.html.  And please note, to not infringe on Jan Richardson’s copyrighted art, I’m using clip art to illustrate this post. You can see her Wise Women here.

Be It Ever So Humble

On By Mary KochIn Uncategorized4 Comments

“Money must be a consideration,” said the drop-in visitor as she glanced around my 340-square-foot studio apartment. I was just moving into our downtown Seattle retirement community of 378 apartments (another 152 to come in five or six years). Mine is one of the smallest, least expensive. She was right. Money was a consideration, but probably not in the way she was thinking.

For years I’ve used a coin purse featuring a cartoon character pulling green dollars out of her billfold. My coin purse is so well worn that the caption is becoming unreadable, but still memorable: “Mo’ Money, Mo’ Problems.” 

Snug, liveable, and more than adequate

Those “mo’ problems” were a factor but not the driving motivation for giving up the home and community I loved to move here. I want to reduce my footprint on our Mother Earth as I age. I want to use fewer resources, live in community, take up less space, and spend less money to maintain house, car, etc. Not yet two months into this venture, I occasionally feel unsettled, mourning what I’ve given up, suppressing envy over larger apartments. So I go for a walk. 

From the west wing, I walk across Freeway Park, where I see two camping tents. There are no signs of life but I’m certain the tents are occupied. I walk past a man who is seated, holding a crutch, staring at nothing. He’ll still be there hours later when I return.

I enter the glass-encased Convention Center, take escalators down four floors, and I’m in the heart of downtown. Heading to Pike Place Market I notice a mummy-style sleeping bag stretched out on the sidewalk in an alcove. It appears to have a body in it. I pray that it’s a live body, though I wonder if life itself is any kind of blessing for this mummified soul. 

That same day the Seattle Times reported that both nationally and in Washington state, homelessness is “growing at a rate never seen before.” The official national count is a 12 percent increase over 2022, and in this state 11 percent. That’s based on the annual Point-In-Time Count. I helped with that count as a volunteer at the Okanogan homeless shelter. We simply recorded the number of folks sheltering on the appointed evening. Shelter populations can vary wildly depending on weather, time of month, and other factors. Nevertheless, we know that on a given night there were at least 28,000 people in Washington who had no place to be. That’s higher than the populations of Mercer Island or Moses Lake.

But those are only numbers that don’t really tell the stories — except for some stunning numbers offered the next day, again in the Times, by columnist Danny Westneat. There’s a building boom downtown. Some 7,200 living units (aka apartments) are under construction. Help for people with no homes? Not so much.

“This boomlet isn’t visible at street level,” Westneat writes. “It’s in the sky.” Once again Seattle has more construction cranes dotting the skyline — forty-five of ’em — than any other U.S. city. The columnist warns that high-rise apartments are likely to turn downtown into a “gated community … only vertical.”  He cites the example of a penthouse atop the 58-story Rainier Tower, renting for $19,999 per MONTH. 

I can’t imagine what it would feel like to drive my luxury car from the garage below my $20K-a-month apartment and spot a homeless person, wrapped in a sleeping bag in the sidewalk. It’s hard enough for me, having just left my snug studio, to walk on by, even with a prayer in my heart.

Carried away by the spirit of the season, I bought more than I intended at the Market. The walk back, with awkward packages, was a slog. Arriving home, I was more grateful than ever for a home to arrive to. Gratitude guarantees contentment. 

I’m not so naive to believe that moving into a tiny apartment or giving up my car is going to solve climate issues or homelessness or myriad other problems. But isn’t that a basic message of Christmas? Just another baby born in an insignificant town, and everything changed. It’s clear — to me, anyway — that if enough of us care a little more, live with a little less, we too can make a significant difference. That’s my prayer for 2024.

A Tale of Two Christmases

On By Mary KochIn UncategorizedLeave a comment

Yesterday (January 5) was Twelfth Night, in olden days recognized as the final day in the Christmas season. Ignored by most people now, Twelfth Night may have a ring of Shakespearean familiarity. It is the occasion for which his comedy of that name was meant to entertain.

I still cling to a Twelfth Night observation. Otherwise, it seems as if we catapult our way from Christmas to New Year’s, landing with a thud on January 2. The party is over. We’re befuddled by the new year’s reality, which feels an awful lot like the old year’s. 

Twelfth Night offers a more gentle landing, like reading a good book, coming to the end and closing the cover with a satisfied pat. It’s a lovely day for lighting candles one more time, listening to carols before tucking them away for another year, packing up decorations, and reflecting on lingering joy. I celebrated this year by lunching with two friends who described their Christmases.

“I boycotted Christmas,” announced Friend No. 1. So much for my gentle landing. She sounded both defiant and liberated. And really, if I’d had a December like  hers, I would’ve boycotted not only Christmas but the entire world. She had demands for year-end reports piling high on her desk when (a) both of the family’s two cars quit running, which maybe wasn’t that big a problem because (b) two family members were stuck at home with Covid, which was anxiety-producing because (c) this year’s especially heavy snow load has resulted in their home’s cracked ceiling.

Because they have offspring, my friend’s boycott was not total. There was a small tree and gifts. Otherwise, she advised extended family and friends that there’d be no packages or cards in the mail, no cookies in the oven.

And then there was Friend No. 2, who began by listing her Christmas dinner guests. They were a variety of ages, religious backgrounds, interests, etc., with one thing in common — they all would have been alone for Christmas dinner. (May I digress: there’s nothing wrong with peaceful solitude on Christmas if you enjoy it, and I do, but that’s another story.) 

Friend No. 2 admitted she was two hours behind schedule getting her guests seated at the table. The meal was delayed by numerous side dishes. I’m not talking about the mashed potatoes, vegetables, salads, etc. Her side dishes were plates of food she and her guests delivered to folks who couldn’t make it to her house for various reasons. I would have found the combination of guests in my home AND deliveries a hair-pulling logistical challenge. She  made it sound as if it’d been no more complicated than buttering toast. She adopted just the right tone of humility, telling us everyone proclaimed her meal delicious.

After our luncheon, I considered the many ways people celebrate Christmas, including — maybe especially — the self-proclaimed “boycotter.” Her day job involves helping people solve problems that are too often unsolvable. She’s overworked, underpaid, under-appreciated and above all, compassionate. Boycott Christmas? Nah, she observes Christmas — the REAL Christmas — every day of the year.