This is NOT a Christmas Letter

This is NOT a Christmas Letter                                     

It’s not a ‘see what I’ve/my children/my partner have accomplished. It’s not about where we’ve traveled or what we’ve acquired so much as about how we continue growing into our funny/flawed/fearsome and fearless forms. As I sit at Pete’s sister’s kitchen table with its red vinyl cover, staring at fluted glass pedestal plates of oranges and bananas and procrastinate, er, write, I imagine what I might tell you about the Year in Review. Here’s what didn’t happen:

·         No one won Lotto or a major award.

·         No one landed a new (full-time) job.

·         No one bought or sold a house or new car.

·         No one gained acceptance into a major (or minor) program of study.

·         No one bought a pet or birthed a baby.

·         No one got engaged or married.

Dullsville? Hardly. Our lives are a celebration of the Ordinary. By Ordinary, I mean:

·         No one got fired.

·         No one lost a home to flood, fire or non-rent-paying tenant.

·         No one declared bankruptcy.

·         No one in our immediate family died, broke bones or visited the hospital.

·         No one received a new diagnosis.

·         No one required rehab or a 12-step program.

·         No one got a speeding ticket, criminal conviction or faced deportation (though Pete reminded me I nearly got dinged for speeding in Ohio).

·         No pets ripped up the yard, peed on the carpet or destroyed favorite shoes.

·         No one divorced.

Gosh, Ordinary smells like gingerbread baking; looks like sunrise after the darkest night; tastes like a warm, ripe strawberry plucked from the plant. I’m massaging Ordinary with coconut-scented oil and feeding him dark chocolate truffles in bed, because I’m lovin’ me some Ordinary, and he’s lovin’ me back.

For now. Ordinary’s more fling than lasting relationship. No one knows if he’s a ten-night or ten-year stand. Ordinary Time is actually a season during the Christian calendar whose name translates the Latin term, Tempus per annum (literally, “time through the year” which comes from Wikipedia, which is Latin for “lazy online search”).

Here, briefly, is what happened through our Ordinary Year, 2012:

January

·         Rang in the New Year in Queenstown, where a passerby taking a family photo said, “Hey, Mom and Dad, let’s have a kiss for the camera.”

·         Relaxed at Dansey’s Pass Holiday Park in the middle-of-nowhere South Island, where a kid swinging over a river nearly clocked my Mr. Magoo head. Also, Pete and I finished sentences while the kids found playmates and shook loose internal organs on a trampoline.

·         Entertained our sole visitor from Spokane, Jean, who fed us enough restaurant meals to last the rest of the year.

February

·         Ran with a team around Lake Taupo, where we just missed snapping a photo of a naked male jogger

·         Took part in the national “Feb Fast,” refraining from alcohol for the month. This effort affected neither my liver function nor my weight.

March

·         Moved from newish suburban villa to an older beach house in town. Sacrificed cleanliness and mod-cons for ocean views and proximity to primary school.

·         Moved from New Zealand to Spokane. Sacrificed ocean views and companionship for big highways, big food and big headaches.

·         Mitigated effects of the above with reunions, winding roads, Mexican food and cheap wine.

Trembled throughout April anticipating:

May

·         Traveled about sixty hours round-trip to spend six kid-free days with the PAHT-nah. Wept with joy.  Returned to Spokane sated, satisfied with choice to move to En Zed.

June/July

·         Alleviated loneliness by devouring a road trip with a side order of running. Feasted at the tables of Steph and Sorrento Centre, where I wrote with flaming fingers and rekindled an appreciation of (differently) organized religion. Paid homage to the Canadian Rockies in Banff and canoed across Lake Louise.

August

·         Wept (again) with joy during reunion with Pete. The PAHT-nah looked more delectable than ever on American soil.  Moved out of Spokane house. Gave away or sold nearly everything. Nearly wept at the only offer made on the house. Pulled house from the market to rent it.  Brought Pete to Ohio for cross-examination by family members and a first and last meeting with Grandma.  Flew Pete and kids to California for cross-examination by Mickey, Goofy and Ariel.

·         Flirted with arrest by TSA officer for attempting to smuggle too-large sunscreen bottle onto airplane. Suggested cavity search instead.

September

·         Moved back into beach house in New Zealand. Re-enrolled kids in school.

·         Shivered during unusually cold spring in world’s draftiest four-walled enclosure.  Fantasized about double-paned windows, insulation and central heating.

October

·         Enjoyed five days of bliss at a writer’s retreat at Ohope Beach.  Fantasized about full-time job as unpaid writer at a beach house.

·         Rejected for first (and so far, only) official full-time (temporary) job as communications advisor.  Fantasized about part-time job as paid writer.

November

·         Fell in love again with En Zed as weather warmed. Called a truce with drafty beach house with galley kitchen, sticky drawers, single toilet, worn carpet, scuffed walls, miniature closets and doll-sized bedrooms. Ignored all of the above while sitting in hammock swing overlooking ocean.

·         Filed for permanent New Zealand residency (could be several months before it’s granted).

·         Celebrated Thanksgiving with a Kiwi potluck. Ate a month’s worth of pumpkin pie in two days.

December

·         Watched Finley finish second in his age group in the long (.8 km) run at school. Beamed, knowing he couldn’t cheat.

·         Secured first Kiwi contract, editing lecture notes for a culinary school. Acquired enough knowledge to open my own restaurant, or at least fumble through a discussion about food, wine and bad service with the preface, “You know, I once edited notes for Le Cordon Bleu…”

·         Mourned passing of Grandma (Ellie) Picken, who died after years of illness.  Mourned distance from family and difficulty of returning for funeral (decided against flying to Ohio).

·         Moved out of beach house per lease and prepared to travel for a month. Nearly split up during move-out.  Endured mostly silent, four-hour drive to Hawke’s Bay. Missed my late husband terribly.  Hated Christmas. Refrained from jumping from vehicle.

·         Reconciled with PAHT-nah after a good feed, good sleep and good (fill in the blank) run. Yes, a good run’s like epoxy – it fixes fissures in your friendship.

We are, in many ways, still in limbo:  we have no residency, no health insurance and no home of our own in the Southern hemisphere. I have not finished banging out The Book or writing a budget. I have, however, finished chapters of memoir, runs up The Mount and completed my paid editing project a day before deadline.

Fiona and Finley are, in the words of Garrison Keillor, “above average” in most things, but only just so. According to teacher progress reports, Fiona must develop spelling accuracy and learn multiplication tables ‘at speed.’ Finley must listen ‘with his full attention to instructions’ and ‘work on not interrupting people.’ Finley is ‘lively,’ and Fiona is a ‘pleasure.’ They’re healthy, whine occasionally about missing Spokane and eat like the All Blacks rugby team after training camp.  They profess love for their mom, dad and will even cop to loving Pete.  Especially in light of the latest American school shootings, we realize how lucky we are to love these Small Fries as humans instead of angels: Finley, with his two missing front teeth who insists, “I already know that!” and Fiona, with her spindly legs and long hair who tells me most nights before bed, “You’re the bestest Mommy in the world!”

Ordinary stuff. Ordinary year. Thank God for that.

Ordinary riches can be stolen; real riches cannot. In your soul are infinitely precious things that cannot be taken from you.

-Oscar Wilde