During one Christmas Eve dinner with his wife, well-known author Paulo Coelho grumbled about something that was not perfect in his life. His thoughtful wife pointed out the beautifully illuminated Christmas tree nearby.
There was one burnt bulb among the brilliantly shining ones.
“It seems to me that instead of thinking of this year as dozens of enlightened blessings, you chose to look at the one light that did not glow,” she said.
What is the ratio of enlightened blessings to burnt bulbs in your life?
This month, whether you enjoy Hanukkah, Christmas, Kwanzaa, the solstice, Festivus, or any other celebration, may you bask in the glow of so many enlightened blessings that you don’t notice any dark spots.
Weeks ago we coordinated the schedules of six busy family members to find a day that worked for everyone to go to the Cedar Hill Christmas Tree Farm. We set the date for December 14 with visions of bright sun glinting off snow-covered fields and our boots crunching in and around rows of perfect trees. We’d picked the perfect fat tree, we’d return to a big dinner, and we’d make eggnog or mulled wine.
It would be perfect.
Then Saturday morning came along. The sun rose, but we couldn’t see it through heavy cloud.
Misty rain fell.
We’ve been renovating our front hall, so all morning my husband and our neighbour laboured at laying tile, grouting and fixing plumbing. All the clothing, and shoes, and boots, and umbrellas, and hats, and scarves, and toilet paper rolls, and surprising other things that normally reside in our bathroom and front hall closet were scattered all over our home. They mixed in with the boxes containing the new toilet and bathroom vanity in our living room.
We’re dog sitting, and he got loose and ran through the tile glue, leaving doggy glue prints on some of the new tiles.
While all that was going on, I set about making the marinade for the crown roast of pork I planned for dinner. The dry rub recipe called for, among other things, thyme. I opened my spice drawer and pulled out the bottle. Empty.
“I’m out of thyme!” I called out.
My husband, panicked, appeared at the kitchen door. “For what?”
I held up the empty bottle, and we both fell apart laughing.
The six of us trooped through increasingly heavy rainfall. We found a tree that wasn’t quite as fat as we like, but was lovely nonetheless. We made the annual stop at the Pakenham General Store and enjoyed their amazing baked goods. (Date squares for me. A perfect ratio of oatmeal to date filling.) The crown roast was delicious—even without the thyme—and the boys made eggnog and played guitar, and all was well.