Santa Lucia poems

I mentioned Saint Lucy's Day to Marie, and explained that the Swedes say it is the darkest night of the year. (And in fact, before they shifted to the Gregorian calendar it would have aligned with the Winter Solstice.) I even told her something about how they celebrate it in Sweden, although I'm pretty sure I haven't told her the story of my evening with Lilliana. Anyway, it clearly made her think about the day, the weather, and any portents that might shine forth from the one or the other. And today, a week later (or almost) she sent me this:


The Eve of Santa Lucia

Full moon tonight.
Cold moon, bitter moon,
some have called it,
but I hope for grace:
a night of pure light
at the dark center of the year,
as the days spiral downwards,
closing in.

But the sky is clouded,
obscured;
there is no light save what we furnish.
So we light guttering candles,
So we string lines of color against the darkness,
So we strew cheap tinsel
to bring light where there is none.


I read this while I was still at work. And I liked it -- of course, I like any poems she sends me -- but I really couldn't think of anything to say back. Later tonight, as I sat in bed drinking and postponing actual sleep, I read it again. I thought about the implicit complaint that she looks for grace, for light, in the world but finds only the light we create. The world itself is dark and it is up to us to do something about it. Or not.

And as I thought about that lament I opened a text file on my phone, and the following answer came to me almost (not quite) as fast as I could type it. (Also I have since then changed one word at Marie's suggestion.)


The little lights hang in electric strands
On trees bedecked with tinsel and with trim.
Bright neon is the work of human hands
To shine when night is foggy, dark, and grim.

The year, just like the day, has its dark night,
When all is bleak and frozen and forlorn.
We hope to see a sign, a flash of light,
But there’s only what we make, till spring is born.

But it was ever thus. For long ago,
When Saint Lucia’s Night and solstice came,
We’d huddle in the dark, against the snow,
And build a bonfire fierce with ruddy flame.

And from that man-made fire that burned so bright,
We drew the hope to stand against the night.


Sleep well, you all.
  

Wife wants to come to my family’s Christmas ... now!

Dear God, how did I let this happen?

It was just about a year ago that Wife emailed me saying she wanted to come to my family's Christmas celebration. [https://hoseasblog.blogspot.com/2018/12/wife-wants-to-come-to-my-familys.html] At the time I didn't try to dissuade her too hard because I assumed the idea would be a complete non-starter. But nobody in the family likes to make a fuss. People put up with shit rather than to rock the boat. So Wife was over at my mother's house one evening several months ago — she was in town for a doctor's appointment and couldn't drive all the way home yet that night — and apparently broached the issue. My mother apparently did not say "No" or at any rate didn't say it loudly enough. And so Wife decided she had an invitation and it was a done deal.

Son 2 flew back to town from college on Sunday. Since Son 1 is living in my apartment, there's not a lot of room for Son 2 as well, and so the two boys agreed that Son 2 would spend some time with Wife. So I drove him there Monday night. And while I was trying to make pleasant chit-chat as I dropped him off, Wife said something about "when we go to your mother's house for Christmas." 

"We"???

I asked her what she meant. She said she had been invited by my mother, and she was sure nobody had a problem with it. I hadn't voiced an objection a year ago. I told her this was news to me. Why hadn't I heard anything about it before? I don't remember what else I said. There must have been something. I got out of there as quickly as I could. I went straight home and started drinking. 

The next day I called my mother from work to ask her, "Did you invite Wife to Christmas?" Her answer right away was, "No! Umm ... why do you ask?" I explained. And that's when I got the story about a few months ago. But my mother also said she'd be willing to go along with any plans that made everybody happy. I told her I couldn't have Wife there, so I also undertook to tell Wife not to come. I sent her a short email to that effect, and then notified both boys that I had done so (because I knew she would take it out on them and I wanted to prepare them). 

Later that day, Son 2 called me. We had a long talk. First he tried to sell me on letting her come. Then he asked me why not. I explained that I wasn't trying to control her, but that I couldn't be around her. It was emotional self-defense on my part, pure and simple. So then he asked, well what if I visit my mother for December 25, and maybe 26 or 27, and then go home and Wife visits after that? "It's fine that you don't want to be around her, because honestly she doesn't want to be around you either." (Music to my ears.) I said that would be OK and we agreed to work out the details later. 

This evening I talked with Son 1. Even though he lives in my apartment, what with one thing and another we hadn't seen each other for several days. He explained that he had been really angry with me for the last 24 hours, because of the emotional firestorm that Wife had apparently unleashed. He said my note to them that I had told Wife not to come felt like I had pulled the pin on a live grenade and tossed it into their laps. I asked, "Why are you mad at me and not at your mom who is the one dumping all the fiery emotions on you?" He answered, "Oh I can be mad at more than one person at the same time, don't worry! There's plenty of anger on that side too. I can be mad at both Donald Trump and Kim Jong Un at the same time if I have to." I smiled and told him I was glad he could multitask. But then as we talked some more it developed that he wanted to know the same thing Son 2 had, namely Why? When I explained that I just couldn't be around her for Christmas, he relaxed. OK, that he could understand as a motive. His bottom line was that he wished, when I had told him and his brother that I had told Wife not to come, that I had added the words "because I just can't spend the holiday around her." He said that would have given the two of them more to work with in managing her. I replied that it never occurred to me that would be helpful to them, and so it was really easy for me to apologize for not having done so. That seemed to resolve that, and we started talking about dinner. 

But I think nobody understands how terrified I am of Wife. That's probably because I have never admitted it to anyone, never discussed how abusive she was, never clarified that in retrospect I now look back and call myself an abused spouse (though I never used that terminology at the time). The behaviors were all there: covering for her, making excuses, cleaning up the damage, and being afraid to come home from work every single night because I didn't know what I was going to face. But I never confided in anyone at the time — anyone! And so I assume that if I try to say something now people will just assume that I am lying to garner sympathy. I assume no one will believe me ... partly because I never said anything then, partly because Wife has probably prepared the ground with stories about how awful I am (so that any stories from either of us about the other will be written off), and partly for the same reason I never thought to use the term at the time: because the archetype of an abused spouse is a battered housewife. Wife's abuse of me was mostly non-physical (emotional, financial, social, but not physical) and of course I'm a man while she's a woman. How could she be the abuser? How could I be weak enough to let it happen?

That last one is easy. I've always been weak. But the rest of it? I don't have high hopes. And so I'll probably still not say anything.

God, but she scares me though. 

Sent from my iPhone

Santa Lucia

Today is the Saint Lucy's Day. (Well actually I'm writing this a week later, but I'm back-dating the post to December 13 because this is the day I want to write about.) Why do I care?

Years ago I worked for a company that required me to travel once in a while: Dublin CA, Cary NC, Dallas TX, Stockholm ... those kinds of places. (I challenge you to figure out the common denominator.) The last time they sent me to Stockholm was in December of 2001. And it was a magical visit, in many ways.

Stockholm is very far north [citation needed] so during the winter it is frequently dark there. I remember sitting in one meeting after lunch, fighting hard against my severe jet lag to pay attention, and looking out the window. As I looked, I saw the street lights come on because it was getting dark. Oh that's interesting, I thought. I wonder what time it is? I looked at my watch and it was 2:25 pm. By the time I was through with work for the day and left the office -- at 4:00 pm -- it was pitch-black and you could see the Milky Way. 

But most of what I remember about that visit involved a colleague named Lilliana.

I had met Lilliana on an earlier visit, when I was staying for several days and she had been delegated to show me around the city. It was a delightful day and we got along beautifully. She was a divorced mother of teenage girls at that point, and I was a married father of very little boys. I was also very stuffy back then about being faithful to Wife (not that Wife ever returned the favor!), besides still being a little clueless about the subtle signals between men and women; so Lilliana and I never did anything compromising together. But she was warm and friendly and we were instantly on the same wavelength; and when I got back home after that first visit my heart beat faster every time I got an email from her. Those emails were all about work, but I still thrilled at them.

So during this visit, in 2001, I had to make sure to see her. 

After completing some of my other business, I traveled to the building where she worked. Security let me in, because I could identify myself as an employee in another location (never mind that we were on another continent!). So I made my way to her cubicle without her being notified that I was on my way. When I got there, a couple other colleagues we both knew were there as well, and she had her head buried under her desk trying to dig out some boxes of files. I leaned against the divider wall of the cubicle and wisecracked, "My God, the people they let wander through this building! You'd think Security would be more careful." Lilliana heard my voice and jumped up from what she was doing. She pivoted around and launched herself into my arms. I held her tight and spun 360 degrees in a circle, swinging her feet off the ground before I let her down again. Then we talked for a while and made plans to meet for dinner. She would come by my hotel and we would go out from there.

This all took place on Saint Lucy's Day, ... or Sankta Lucia's Day, as it is called in Sweden. And the customs for that day are very specific. Choirs of girls and young women roam the city in long white dresses, wearing crowns of candles bound on their heads with garlands of holly and singing songs of Saint Lucy. That afternoon a choir entered the office building where I was working with some other colleagues and roamed the halls singing. This was a sign for everyone to stop working and come into the common room to listen ... to listen and eat cookies and drink glögg. (It could never happen in America. No HR department in the country would allow it.)

 

When Lilliana finally joined me at my hotel, she had forgotten that we were going to eat and so had already eaten at home. Also she had had something to drink, which meant that she'd had to walk to my hotel instead of riding her bicycle. What do you mean? I asked. Well I can't drive a vehicle if I've been drinking, she explained. But a bicycle? I insisted. That's a vehicle, she clarified. Swedish law makes no distinction. OK, got that.

 

So we walked to a bar and got drinks. And talked, and just enjoyed each other's company. And as we sat there talking, suddenly the lights went out and voices began to sing. It was another choir, walking through the bar singing the Santa Lucia song, and everyone stopped to listen. When they were done they left and the lights came back up.

 

Lilliana and I talked about all kinds of things that night. I've forgotten most of them, although I remember that partly we discussed the grim business outlook for our company and what we might do if the worst came to pass. I remember that I desperately wanted to take her in my arms, kiss her deeply, and make love all night long, and in fact I did nothing even vaguely close to that. Virtue or cowardice, today I can't tell you which it was. And finally the night came to an end and we went our separate ways.

 

I never saw her again after that visit, but we connected on LinkedIn. So today (18 years after that magical night) I sent her a quick note through LinkedIn wishing her a happy Sankta Lucia's Day. In a matter of hours, no more than that, she sent me a reply: "Oh wow, YOU REMEMBERED!"

 

How could I ever forget?