There is one person who has not dropped me from her Christmas list. Even though we rarely see one another anymore, she manages to hang on to the remembrance of giving me a gift certificate for a massage. I am less predictable, and have bounced between sending my latest book, or a hand made item. This year I offered one of my sister's paintings, which I think she will enjoy. There is art all over her home, especially pieces by women.

 

Today I will cash in on her magnanimous present. The thing about it is, seeing the little paper card in a white bag on my desk builds the anticipation. It's like the secret stashes of chocolate that I manage to tuck away. I know they are waiting for me. Except that Benjamin has learned the usual places, and sometimes raids it before I get a chance to indulge. Even if he came upon my gift certificate he would have no idea how to redeem it. So it is all mine. 

 

Self care is more popular than it used to be. Being stoic had its rein for a a long while. Going without was a deeply ingrained value for my mother's generation, which was the side effect of enduring the war. They rationed food, and metal, and rubber as a practice that was not easily passed down. My mom told me that one time they were driving from Detroit to Pennsylvania, a frequent trip for them, when one of the kids was sick in the back seat. Each time the unbuckled child threw up, mom scooped up the pillowcase, or towel and chucked it out the window. It was the only way she could think to endure the confinement and smell for fifteen hours. She laughed as she told me, and it was for her an act of rebellion against the frugality that was her ball and chain. 

 

New attitudes are in vogue. People are migrating toward living with less, not because they must but from choice. Yet even in a climate of minimalism, there is room for joy. Benevolence. Curiosity. Humor. Dance. Touch.

 

 

Even a slender chocolate bar.