So, I was watching a cute little Christmas movie on TV last night, thoroughly exhausted after a seemingly simple circuit of the Madison area in the name of elfish behavior. Nick, having had no prior exposure to my fabled Christmas donkey, found himself immersed in the story—he proclaimed half-way through that so far it was just sad, and his interest had piqued to see how it could all possibly turn around.

Well, without giving it away (you'll just have to donate 22 minutes of your precious time to the cinematic brilliance of stop-motion animation if you're dying to know), I'll have to change the names a bit. Nestor makes it to....uh...Pethlehem, and is sought out by two individuals—Nary and Boseph. They wind up in a stable and The Zavior is born. I looked over at Vick (sorry, NICK) at the conclusion to gauge his reaction, and found him chewing the inside of his lip.

"I think it's all a ploy to sell books," he decides in his smart alecky tone.

—"What!? When have you EVER seen anything about Nestor in stores?" I'm gullible, my mother often said so too.

"No. Jesus."

I snorted into the cup between my hands and looked to my devout Christian boyfriend with barely concealed humor.

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...

So, totally, the best part of my outpatient procedure, competing against both the almost 4-hour wait and the 36-hours-without-food tummy growl, was my anesthesiologist...who was a dead ringer for Patrick Dempsey. Yum-my.

And the second best was when he put a stick of gum in his mouth and Nick looked on, nervously, questioning if he was going to kiss me. They had already administered the feel-good, anti-stress narcotics, and I thought to myself in a drunken slur and with a concealed smile, "I'm not wearing underrrrwearrrr!"

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.

I have the procedure tomorrow, and this morning as I re-read my instructions on what to eat and drink, how to clean the wound-site, blah blah blah...and it occurs to me that no matter how innocently they sneak it in, the words "bowel prep" never sit right. Ever.