Christmas tree gazing. . .

I am sitting in my darkened livingroom, a rarity these days since this is a room I hardly ever choose to spend my evenings in. It usually doesn't make sense to linger, alone, in a room that, in my mind, is meant for socialization. But tonight, the last night of this year, I felt drawn here, realizing this is my last opportunity for quiet Christmas tree gazing before the "magic" disappears. Everything is very still except for the motion of the anniversary clock on the shelf. The clock glitters with the reflection of the lighted tree and a trio of glass angels glows softly, adding a celestial aura to the room. In contrast, Mr. Grinch, who is seated on the floor in front of the tree makes me smile. His expression is entirely mischievous and his eyes seem to follow you no matter where you are in the room. Beside him sits Max, whose pathetic expression is just as realistic--exactly like the poor hound dog in the show.

Today has been kind to me and I am grateful. After several days of allowing myself to wallow a bit in a little self indulgence, I feel my spirits lifting and my perspective improving. It is my prayer that I will never become so self absorbed that I lack compassion for others when their days are not being so kind to them.

Moments in time. . .

What a beautiful day! The sun is bright. The snow is pure. The ground is blanketed under the soft white fluff and the trees are as still as they can be. Serenity. The only busyness going on is the ever-changing hovering of chickadees at the birdfeeder. Through the window near my desk, looking out at the snowdrifts surrounding the "Hobbit Hole," I see evidence of pending "peace on earth, good will toward men." It is an "all is calm, all is bright" sort of day. Oh, if we could only adjust these moments--pause the slideshow, so to speak.

I have always been intrigued by the concept of timelessness and tend to believe that it is as close as we can get to fathoming what God's time is really like. Sequential timelines, I believe, were contrived in our attempt to comprehend the incomprehensible and perhaps as a means for learning from our mistakes. But how could that which always was and always will be, what has no beginning nor any end, be contained in such a way?

There are timelines for everything. They measure days, weeks, months--eras and ions! They dictate our growing up and our growing old. They can be stifling or stimulating, depending on our attitude. They do offer an opportunity to retrace history in hopes of improving the future. How is that working for us, I ask?