Truth About Santa

E, my 9 year old, told me she had something she needed to talk with me about privately.
 She told me that last year she was looking in the dresser of the guest bedroom for some craft thing or another and had found the same fabric Santa had used on her beanbag cover. And she recalled a time on Christmas eve when she'd got up to get water and came to look for me to me to snuggle with her and got a glimpse of me in the family room surrounded by Target bags. So (with a deep sigh), she wanted to know if Santa was real.
I looked her straight in the eyes and said what I believe to be true, "Yes."
 Then I asked her if she thought Santa was a man who lived in the North Pole and was surrounded by elves. And she shook her head. She asked if Santa was just someone who gave parents the presents and the parents put them under the tree. I told her not exactly, but sometimes; in her house her mommy and daddy get the things for her and her sister.
I told her Santa is a spirit, a feeling of joy of giving and fun and delight. It's what makes parents want to create fun surprises and feelings of magic and mystery. It is also the spirit that makes people want to give in a big and special way.
 We talked about the origins of St. Nicholas who gave out of the joy in his heart and willingness to share in his abundance. And how he was inspired by the great love and generosity of God.
 I told her the spirit that is Santa Claus isn't just something that mommies and daddies share but it is what makes people give so much of themselves, especially this time of year. It's what makes people, who sometimes aren't even Christian, go out and pay off the layaways (I explained what that was) for total strangers who would never know who did this generous thing, so that they could give their families a nice Christmas. It is a fun and magical thing.
 I then explained that, ultimately, behind all magic is a person or people, meaning people make magic happen. And that magic and miracles were different things. People can make magic but only God can make miracles.
"So you are the one who moves Samantha [our elf]?" she said. "Yes," I confessed.
"I thought so."
 She was actually relieved. The questions of a curious and clever child were weighing heavily on her. Her love of believing conflicted with her ability to logically make smart connections, She was actually very happy to learn the truth about Santa.
 I asked her if she enjoyed all the magic and mystery and fun. She said "Yes." So we talked about how important it is to not spoil the magic and mystery for anyone else--especially her little sister. She asked if she could still have Santa. I asked if she believed and she smiled broadly, "yes."
Then I told her now that she knew the secret she could sometimes help make the magic. She liked that very much.

I wasn't looking forward to this day, and I'm a little sad it's here, but I'm so pleased she understands the truth and can feel very confident in saying she does believe in Santa and knows Santa is real.

I see YOU.

I see you.

I was not raised color blind, rather raised to believe that superficial attributes like skin pigment, eye color, hair color, height, shape of eyes, length of nose, size of ears, how many toes one has or any other exterior characteristics said nothing about the content of one’s character.  And I was raised that everyone, regardless of those exterior features were worthy of love and respect. 

And I see you.  I see that your skin is the color of chestnut and your eyes are hazel and your thick curls are deep, shade of auburn and your cheeks are freckled.  And with those features I know that you and I share more than a few things—we both have more allergies than most of our friends and family, and possibly some weird ones.  I, with my ginger waves and gray eyes and pale, freckled skin, know that we share something beyond the superficial—down at the genetic level because all people with the genes that turn our hair red, any shade, are the result of a genetic combination that manifests externally and internally.  I know you’ve endured a special level of teasing that red hair inspires.  I know you know what it’s like to be a minority within a minority.  So I know that about you and because we share those superficial things, I already have started to have an affinity for you.

But I don’t know you.  Yet.  So I’m listening. I hear you speak of Jesus or Allah or going to Temple and I begin to understand more about you.  You mention your age, and I think to my knowledge of history and what you may or may not be familiar with having experiences different decades.  I hear your accent and I ask, because I want to know more about you, not to diminish you or point out your otherness, where you are from.  You say northern California or southern Texas, or Scotland or Eritrea and I get a better picture of experiences that might have shaped you and a perspective that I might learn from.  I ask about family and relationships, because those are often important to people and what you say adds to understanding of you and might lead to more things we might have in common.

But I don’t know you.  Yet.  So I’m listening and I’m watching.  I hear you speak at work or see you at school events with your children or see you at church or on the soccer pitch coaching my girls or on the dance floor, or at political rallies or at the airport expertly rerouting me after a cancellation.  I read the articles you share, look at the pictures you post, the artists you like and the comments you make, to glean some of your perspective and better understand what influences and motivates you.  I appreciate your skills, your efforts, your hard work, your thankless work, your brilliant work, your charm, your humor, your style, your smile, and your occasional bouts of crankiness or even fiery temper.

And while I don’t know everything about you, I am adding up the things I do know, the things I have seen and building my image of you as an individual, a uniquely and beautifully and wonderfully made person.  And that is how I see you.  And I continually work on forming that image as I learn more, by listening and watching and interacting with you, so that I can know you better.  You are who I see.

So I struggle with generalizations that everyone who has skin like this or is this gender or has that sexual preference or goes to that church or supports this candidate or dress in this way or is from this economic class or comes from this neighborhood or works that kind of job or is originally from that country is supposed to be or act or think the same. That has never been my experience with the people I have known, and I have be fortunate enough to travel broadly and live many places and meet many, many different people. 

I see you and I know you are the sum of many things, many experiences and all your own.  And I want to know you at that level, so I approach you, not always without some bias, because I’m flawed and shaped by experience too, but with a desire to find our commonalities and what we can both newly perceive or rethink through a better understanding of our sameness and our differences. 

I see you.  

Sad Anniversary

There are days when your heart is rent so badly that you are left with a hole that can never be filled. You learn to navigate the hole and eventually it gets easier to get around. But it is always there. 
This day, the anniversary of my mother's passing, even after more than 20 years, always finds me at the edges of tears all day (and, frequently, in tears). My mother was a singularly gentle, kind and loving person. Though she held my sister and me to high standards, her love and affection was given freely and without condition.
It is incredibly good fortune have had such an amazing mother and incredible example of how to be a positive part of the world.
She continues to be with me, always--in my relationships with others, my work ethic, my sense of duty and responsibility, in the personalities of my children and my understanding of the great power of love.
She is not here, though. And that feels unfair. Yet, my life is pretty wonderful--the life she would want for me. And that's more than fair.
This day, though...