top of page

christmas 2020

Last week, my dad stopped by unexpectedly to drop off Christmas gifts, masked. As he cracked open the door and hollered into our home what he was doing, sadness overcame me. I grieved touching and hugging on him; I grieved our sacred family traditions; I grieved for my children, for my beloveds, for me, for all of us. Tears spilled, washing and moving and making room. They spilled into my next zoom meeting…and kept spilling.

And making room for my honest tender-heartedness with colleagues in that moment; later, candles sprinkled throughout our home; a new DIY Christmas Celebration Howton-style around the fire with songs and stories and poetry; too much cookie dough that is still taking up too much room in the fridge; unexpected joys and surprises and wonder–unimaginable gifts that I didn’t even know to dream of.

My youngest, Meg, learned the truth about Santa this year. She’s eleven. It was time. And like all of 2020, this truth came with loss: Santa doesn’t look like what she’d imagined all her childhood. And, this truth came with gifts: Santa doesn’t look like what she’d imagined all her childhood. 

0 views0 comments

Recent Posts

See All

on becoming

as WildRoots enters the next season, i'm wanting to share some of what is unfolding--not so much the what; more, the how. it matters because WildRoots belongs to all of us. WildRoots is us. the vision

responsibility falls on the one most healed

as we grow in consciousness and can see/feel/know more, we are responsible for that knowing. how this responsibility takes form does not always appear as responsible, conscious, wise, loving. sometime

a femmefesto

this is a femmefesto: a call to action. it has flowed out of my weary and angry and powerful bones, connecting me with the bones of the ancestors--the witches, the queens, the nursemaids, the slaves,


bottom of page