LETTERS FROM HOME: CHRISTMAS LETTER 1998: ADVENTURES IN THE FEELING OF BELONGING

Dec. 24, 1998

Dear friends,

Our fifth Christmas together is very different from the first. Then we were alone in California, our hearts glowing like the candles on DC's tree. This year we are surrounded by family -- parents, sisters, brothers, nieces, nephews, in-laws -- and for me an increasing sense of being where we belong.

We did take trips to Hawaii and Paris this year. I was ill all over Hawaii while she cavorted in a kayak buffeted by humpback whales. We were lost much of the time in Paris, but where better to be lost?

To have gone to two such beautiful places in one year can only mean we are lucky and broke.

Hank and Lucy remain beloved members of the family, though Hank's squirreliness requires that he take a daily dose of Prozac. It seems to take the edge off.

The house projects are in perpetual motion. Fortunately, DC and my father-in-law are most handy. My job is to hand them the hammers and drills.

My fascination with the dimpled ball endures, much to DC's disappointment. She would rather I were beguiled by swordfighting or monkey worship than have me gush over an artfully struck 7 iron or how lovely Scotland would be in the summer.

Her office is busy, and nights she runs to historic preservation meetings and pottery classes. Her talk of installing a kiln by the furnace makes me worry about her impatience with cooking in general. Her philosophy: If a recipe calls for medium heat, boiling will do the job twice as fast.

At work I have become one of the old salts who remembers the days of hot lead and percolating teletype machines, eight cups of coffee by lunch and a siesta to sleep off the night before. Then do it all over again.

Life has become much less frantic, more resonant. An exchange of might be for what is in the realization that what is is all that matters.

DC has soothed my holiday anxieties with a customized Twelve Days of Christmas this year. On the first days of Christmas, the van and the pickup truck miraculously appeared in the driveway devoid of the junk she refuses to call junk. On the fifth day she seated me at the kitchen table and served a bottle of Anchor Steam, my favorite beer. Wretch that I am, I wondered where my other four bottles were.

On the Sixth Day, a large slab of smoked Gouda cheese made me smile.

On the tenth day, she framed and left next to my computer a card a friend sent long ago. It reads: "Out of chaos comes the dance of balance." I seemed to have forgotten the wisdom on that card lately. DC found it for me.

The last two days of Christmas are yet to come, but I already know the greatest gift is to be truly understood and loved by someone and to understand them and love them back.

Everybody looks for miracles at Christmas, signs that our lives are indeed enchanted. For me, Christmas is the miracle, a reminder that every day holds the promise of mysterious excitement and the love and warmth we feel toward each other now. It is a reminder that every day is holy.

The forecast for Christmas Eve here is cold and warm. We wish the same for you.

Love, Sam

~Sam Blackwell is a staff writer for the Southeast Missourian.