During my youth (Nick dislikes when I say, "When I was little..."), we saw one, two at most, shows at the theatre a year. It was during the holiday season when we'd take the more illogical, back ways into Madison, and an even more nonsensical weaving path home—just to sing Christmas carols all the way and gaze at the light strewn homes and the warm glowing of lights pouring from the windows.

The year that Little Women came to the theatre, I didn't have to ask if we could see it, my mother being a fan herself. I have the book, her book from childhood, well read and frayed at the binding. I cherish the wear. Mom loved this story so much that she gave me the name of her most favorite character (and, coincidentally, mine as well), Beth. My middle name. My first name was donned in honor of her MOST favorite piece of literature, Little House on the Prairie.



I apologize, I've gotten off track. You must understand that I'm rather fond and not a little grateful of my borrowed names...for I am a devotee of the written word (and can easily blame my ardor for the eye-rolling my vocabulary tends to summon), but also because Mom saved me from Dad's naming abilities: he wanted to name me Kitty. Kitty Kittleson. You'd sing the praises of your name to be so saved, too.

There's nothing outwardly special about Beth. Meg is the propriety, Amy is the animation, and Jo...ah, Jo. Jo is the imagination...or, perhaps, the indignation. Beth was happy to simply exist. She didn't feel the need to make waves or to call attention to herself—in fact, she desired just the opposite...she wanted only to love her family and be loved in return. To me, her character speaks loudest of all. There is something to be said for the shy, for they won't say it for themselves.

My father and brother were less than enthused to see Little Women that year, so we each made a concession. They "suffered" through one of the most beautiful films of all time to make it to the next day, when Mom and I were tortured at the hands of Dumb and Dumber. I am watching the movie this morning, a film that I only watch at Christmas. It isn't a Christmas movie per se, but the tugging of my heartstrings sings ever so sweetly of the season.

The story of family—both the family we're born to and the family we make—of finding the vibrant beauty in the midst of a haze, of always knowing your lofty place in the hearts of your loved ones. The coloring is lovely, shot in the ambient glow of candlelight and the tree-filtered rays of sunlight and the soundtrack peaceful, transitioning easily between crackling fireplaces and chirping birds. The movie is about life, the best parts of life, the parts that are always there if you're looking for them. As Tolkien so wisely concluded, "It is not a bad thing to celebrate a simple life."

I listened to a good friend's podcast this morning, and she spoke briefly about the beginning of her blogging career. It caused me to think of mine, how it has evolved. I was inspired to blog by Anna, actually, as her site has long amused me...and I think our blogs have succeeded in keeping us close over the years, even though I haven't seen her or spoken to her since 2002. I started blogging to keep my family involved in my life 1,200 miles away. I wrote of only silly things, things I found funny, because I wanted to give a smile.

It quickly became difficult to be "always on". Not that I'm not amused daily, and not that I don't find occasion to laugh just as often, but there's more to life than gaiety...so much more. And it is the collection of emotions as a whole that make life so vibrant and cause such smiles. There is a breadth to life, and humor just barely tickles the edge.

It was quite droll to see the March sisters in their young lives, their imaginative escape from the reality of war...but how dull to not see their travails, their strengths tested, or the way it all works out in the end...it will always work out in the end. We're way too small in this world to see the bigger picture, so stop making yourself crazy trying to do so! This has been quite a year. I was surprised the other day to see my inner Mary Sunshine taking hold, and my recollections from 2006 being mainly good. My personal growth has been just outstanding, and maybe it took losing my crutches to find my balance.

Lucy Maud Montgomery's Anne Shirley (are you sick of me quoting lit yet?) said in response to a question about what she will do after she completes her four years at school, "'Oh, there's another bend in the road at the end,' answered Anne lightly. 'I've no idea what may be around it -- I don't want to have. It's nicer not to know.'"

Isn't that the truth! You cherish the good surprises so much more that way...

Other years I would have fretted. I am a Christmas traditionalist and tend to dislike an influx of tinsel and fiber optic gaud—my whimsy flourishes this time of year whilst I lie shrouded in the days of yore, and quite appropriately, lore. This is my first Christmas with Nick, and I knew even as we rounded the corner on November that he had his own set of traditions...traditions that may or may not encase mine. Ah, the blending of lives...complicated business. It was a blessing, surely, that the lights in my eyes have only just begun to dance.

We made a sort of gentlemen's agreement, sealed coquettishly over a handshake: you decorate with your stuff one year, I'll decorate with mine the next. It was a mock arrangement to begin with, but, nevertheless, I have been less than sprightly with my aching body...and more than willing to let Nick take the reigns. The tree took its place at the window on Sunday.

Out came Nick's collection of ornaments, and he showed me each one, each a memory made for him to hold. Excitedly he began adorning the branches, and he directed in a hushed sort of glee that I should add my own collection as well, that the activity had infused him with the holiday spirit. I looked at the wooden ornaments, most of them painted by Aunt Brenda, the others in Norwegian rosemaling, that my mother had given to me in 2003, knowing how dearly I loved the nostalgia the collections of tin soldiers and rocking horses summoned. So sleepy, I continued to watch Nick move to and fro with his sparkling grin.

But he persisted, offering even to place my ornaments himself if I wasn't feeling able. I rose from my blanket-nest on the couch and went to work. He was right...I lost myself in my smiles, and felt truly happy to see the finished product, the mark of his caprice next to mine. I hung the final ornament, photographed above, just this morning. Aunt Debbie gave it to me this past Sunday, and I know that she was smiling down as I let myself enjoy life and love.

And, I remembered. With many a smile.

There were times over the past year-ish that I held my breath for the other shoe to drop, peaked in tucked-away closets looking for the skeleton—honestly Nick seemed too good to be true. He wandered into my life at a time when it felt like everyone in my heart was leaving or had already gone. I began our relationship with a very guarded nature, expecting to be disappointed eventually, and not wanting my heart too invested.

But, he keeps sticking around, even with all of the trouble I've been this year. He's always at my elbow, hand resting on the small of my back, offering me his strength when I have reached the end of mine.

Yesterday at work, my phone rang constantly, and it seemed to be a symphony between my clinic, a surgery scheduler, and my surgeon's assistant. Last Friday, I was told that I needed a pretty big surgery to remove the rest of my infection, and now I have two of the top UW surgeons scheduled to fix me up. Wednesday, they called to suggest more imaging and an outpatient surgery to see if they could do the big surgery with just one incision from the back (instead of having to do one from the front as well), and avoid having to to slice through bone and colon to get to the infection site.

In a period of about 2 hours yesterday, I was scheduled for an MRI (today), surgery work-up (yesterday), outpatient surgery (Tuesday), the next surgery work-up (12/18) and the next surgery (01/18). It was a stressful day and I never seem to lose this tired feeling lately. I called Nick around 10:00 and told him I had a 2:00 surgical work-up at the hospital. I didn't ask him to come with me, but there he was, wanting to be by my side and help me through. He left work early (it was my half-day) and showed up at my company to pick me up.

He's my transport for next Tuesday's procedure, he's the guy tasked out as bringing me a strong cuppajoe once they bring me to, and the one they instructed to let me sleep it off once I was home. Even though he jokes about it being a good time to go to a basketball game without me being fussy for being left behind, I know he won't do that...the Badgers don't play that day. ;-)



But more than that, he's the guy that had a lovely bouquet of flowers waiting for me when we got home yesterday afternoon, he's the guy that tucked my über-soft bouclé throw around me where I curled up on the couch while he did tasks around the house, and he's the guy who seems to wince as often as me when I'm feeling sore.

I guess now is the time to step back on trembling legs and admit that Nick is just that...good. My whole family seems to be going through bouts with poor health—in fact, three of us will be in hospitals next Tuesday—and just because I am how I am (and I'm gonna get yipped at for saying this), I won't take my problems to them when they have so much on their plates already...and I was only too prepared to tackle this solo...somehow. Turns out I don't have to...Nick wants to take care of me. I don't know why I should be so lucky, but I most certainly am.