Sudbury, Massachusetts — Christmas day at my brother’s family’s house, 11 of us finish our late afternoon meal and fall back into our beds for naps, collectively leveled by ham, potatoes, creamed spinach, cole slaw, squash and pumpkin pies, rum pudding, cookies.
I rise and start singing at 7pm, winter dark outside. It’s quiet singing for a while, just rambling along.
Then I look out to see the house next door, framed by bare trees, dark sky and snowy ground. Inside this clapboard house a lamp lights the living room in a certain orange, the classical New England tone of haven. I sing to this familiar image of coziness for a while, to family.
I note no specific theme or insight in today’s practice … just a slow ride buoyed by food coma, hearing my niece and nephew outside the door, playing with their dog.