Christmas Eve's Eve

I don't know how many people call this day Christmas Eve's Eve, but I love the label. It makes the day just a little more special and makes the anticipation of Christmas Day just a little sweeter.

And it's also part of the reason that I'm persnickety about the names for things. Like, when I found out what fruit ambrosia was, I was super angry that something so disgusting was deemed worthy of the name ambrosia. There's a super strict part of me that insists on having just the right name for things and finding out what things are called when I don't know.

It's the reason I loved finding out the meaning of the word "philtrum" and figuring out that I could say "rheum" instead of "eye boogers." And I love using the phrase "Christmas Eve's Eve" because it's so wonderfully precise and festive that I feel a zing of delight in using it.

Naming something makes it more real and tangible. If I don't have a name for it, what is it really? I'll need ten other words to describe it and even then I might not be able to communicate what I actually mean. I'm not able to talk about it or write about it or even like/dislike it completely. The first thing we do when we discover something is name it. When a new life comes into the world, we make a big deal of giving the baby a name that will define him or her. Adam named the animals and so we name the rest of the animals and elements and chemicals and everything we've invented and dreamt about.

And people's names mean something, which is probably why I own two baby name books and why I get excited when the Social Security Administration releases its annual list of the most popular baby names. I love looking up name meanings and hearing new names and wondering what they mean.

I once met a girl from Iran named Arazou. She told me her name meant "wish" in Persian. I'm usually not great with remembering what people's names are no matter how simple or common the name. But I always remembered hers because I thought it was nice that her name meant something fanciful and dreamlike.

So the enchantment is this: Names are important and what we choose to name ourselves and others can make or break us.

House of Mourning

I like sad stories. 

This doesn't mean that I like stories that are mawkish and corny. Way too many stories insert sentimentality that doesn't really teach anything about life or pain. Sure, they may teach a few good lessons, but, ultimately, the tragedy doesn't do anything for the story that a happy ending could do just as well. The fatalistic idea that life is futile and full of sadness and that there are no bright spots is almost as bad. (This is kind of how I felt when I watched A Farewell to Arms.)

But good stories with sad endings or overall happy stories with sad or bittersweet elements--those are the ones I love. I've even wondered why and thought maybe something must be wrong with me.

But recently I read this Ecclesiastes 7:2-4 and it got me thinking.

It is better to go to the house of mourning, than to go to the house of feasting: for that is the end of all men; and the living will lay it to his heart. Sorrow is better than laughter: for by the sadness of the countenance the heart is made better. The heart of the wise is in the house of mourning; but the heart of fools is in the house of mirth.

When we don't acknowledge sadness, we don't acknowledge every aspect of life. We ignore it to focus on what is easy and convenient for us. We never think seriously about things and we drown ourselves in frivolous pursuits so we don't have to feel pain. But pain is a part of life and we have to deal with it in a healthy manner rather than leave someone else to deal with it. In the same way, we can't be so wrapped up in our pain that we have no mental space to be there for those who love us. When we know the seriousness of pain, we can better understand and acknowledge others' pain.

Those who choose to ignore sadness can't be compassionate toward others. They are uncomfortable with tears and don't wish to have their happy-go-lucky lives interrupted by reminders that life isn't always sunny. They'd rather be blissfully unaware of suffering and not do anything about it.

That not expressing our sadness is not healthy and doesn't allow us to fully experience other emotions was basically the lesson of Pixar's Inside Out. Because Riley can't express her sadness, she is unable to cope with the changes around her. It's why her core emotion Joy has to feel sadness to fully understand Riley. It's only when she experiences this sadness that she is able to overcome her situation to achieve her goal.

The film's director Pete Docter summed this up perfectly in a quote for E! News: "Joy is certainly something we seek after and desire, but it's not always in reality what we get. I think it feels truthful to people, which is what we were reaching for. Unlike a fairy tale where it all wraps up in a nice happy ending, you deal with the reality of loss and disappointment. That's where sadness really comes in."

So the enchantment is this: Life has happiness and sadness and we have to deal with both. But we don't have to deal with it alone.

Being a Mermaid

Who doesn't want to be a mermaid right?

Every time I go to the beach, I spend some time lounging on the shore, out of the tide's pull but within its reach. It's a way of enjoying the water without having to constantly fight the waves or jump over them.

And without fighting the waves, you can just let nature literally wash over you and listen to the crash of the water, finally expelling the energy that's propelled it for miles and miles. The sand is coarser when you rub it against you and your skin easily absorbs billions of sunbeams that traveled eight million miles to fry or warm you.

I actually don't care much for nature though my desktop backgrounds would suggest the opposite. Walking outside is a bother unless it's cool and windy and preferably overcast and I've never been one for roughing it out in the wilderness or even a park. But the ocean is different. As long as I stay where my feet can touch the sand, I feel safe from the sharks and fish and seagulls and crabs and rip currents and whatever else is out there in the big blue. It's just me and the feeling of being in a little piece of the small infinity that is the ocean.

I used to dream that I could breathe underwater, even though I'm not the best of swimmers. But I've never gone out into the deep to experience the feeling of weightlessness. I've never thought of improving my swimming skills to enjoy the water even more. All I think about after the waves have tossed me over and shoved me back to the shore is that I want to sit in a comfortable spot and not think about my worries for a while.

Some people sleep at the beach. Others swim or read. I sometimes read, but mostly I think. It comes so naturally to me that I don't know how others live without taking the time to just sit with their thoughts. And when you pair your thoughts with the ocean, your thoughts don't feel small and important. They feel like they matter, like they're the perfect foreground for the immense background noise and image that is the ocean--like everything's in harmony even if your thoughts aren't.

This is another one of those thoughts that I feel doesn't have an enchantment except that it's great to just relax at the beach with your own thoughts. It's always good to take the time to do that.

The Lake Made Me Sick

When I was little, I lived in a house near a lake. Not a big lake or some luxury water sports paradise. Just a lake that grew from a canal and made neighborhood backyards a little more picturesque than they would've been. Looking at it from Google Earth, one can see it's not Lake Tahoe, but it's a body of water larger than a puddle, and that's good enough for suburbians.

This lake wasn't special, but it made for a nice backyard, and I suppose the ducks visited often and we would give them food. I have a distinct memory of my dad holding one and me freaking out when it waved its wings. Maybe that's why I strongly dislike ducks now.

There was a red canoe, which apparently I did go on once, but I don't remember. But the canoe belonged to our landlord as did the Chinese-style gazebo that I always longed to lounge in but never had the freedom to. I felt as if everything belonged to him, even that lake.

This sounds like a charmed childhood, and for the most part it was except that I often had bouts of bronchitis, and the doctor said it was because we lived by a lake.

According to my parents, when we moved, I stopped getting sick. Now, I only get sick about once every two to three years.

But I'll always wonder though if the lake was really that bad. Sure, it was nondescript, but I wasn't one to play outside very much. How was something so pure-looking so toxic to me?

There's a lake in the neighborhood we live in now. It's not in our backyard, and we never go visit it. And there may be a lake behind my window, but a giant tree that looks more like a bush on steroids blocks most of my view. For a while before that tree became an overachiever, I could see several small bodies of water that I called lakes even though they were separated by little more than ridges of dirt. The rain would wash away the distinctions and make everything the same.

I swam in a classmate's lake for an end-the-year party. It made my hair and skin smooth and I loved the feeling of the mossy rocks against my toes.


I've been trying to find an enchantment for my relationship with lakes. They haven't followed me around really, and I'll always prefer the ocean. But there's something about the placidity of a lake, the way the wind moves above the surface just so--just gently enough to make it seem that it's constantly moving. The way it reflect the color of the sky truer than the ocean does. Lakes just seem to make anyplace more serene. Even the little sliver of lake I can see from my window makes me feel calm.

So the enchantment seems to be this: Nature. Just nature.