Christmas Cards

I've been creating my own Christmas cards since 2000, each December choosing a different piece of my artwork for the cover image (the above Venice balcony scene this year) and printing a newsy message on the inside. Composing the letter is more than a writing exercise. It's an invitation to take stock of things, to review the events of the year just concluding and look forward to what is to come. Any applicable major life events - marriages, deaths, births, graduations, changes of job or residence - figure prominently. But I try to add a few personal details for flavor and usually close with a reminder of what Christmas means to us (the reason for the season).

There have been years that I almost regretted beginning the tradition, only because it often feels like a lot of extra work at an already-busy time. Still, I'm convinced it's effort well-spent. I hope our friends enjoy our cards as much as we do the ones we receive. In the long run, though, our own Christmas letters are probably most valuable to us, serving as a permanent record more reliable than my faulty memory. I only wish I had started chronicling our family history sooner.

Aura of Glory

Yesterday morning, I was up unusually early (for me, at least) and sitting at my desk before dawn, ready to get to work on my current writing project. My reward for this singular accomplishment? Another exquisite view of Mt. Rainier through the window in front of me. When I wrote an entry a few months ago about the many moods of Rainier, I neglected to mention this particular phenomenon. The mountain, wearing a heavy coat of fresh powder, appears framed by a radiant halo effect, rather like the bright aura that supposedly surrounds all objects and living things.

I assume this is how it happens: Water vapor and/or tiny snow crystals, whipped high into the air by the winds swirling around the peak, catch the light, producing the glowing atmospheric layer extending what must be at least a couple hundred feet on all sides. The effect is most pronounce when lit up from behind by the rising sun, which is what I witnessed yesterday. It was stunning. But did I think to grab my camera so that I could share a photo instead of just a word picture with you? Unfortunately, not. I just sat and stared, not getting any work done until the sun broke above the Cascades and into my eyes, forcing me to finally look away.

I have noticed this mountain halo before, but for some reason this time it reminded me of a similar effect that I saw occasionally, years ago, sported by my younger son. As a toddler, he had very fine, wispy blond hair. Except when plastered down with water, it tended to shoot from his scalp in every direction, like the rays of the sun, in complete defiance of gravity. And, as with the mountain's example, when back lit, the inch-and-a-half fringe around his head fairly glowed. Here again, I wish I could share a picture of my little angel wearing his built-in halo. Although such photographic evidence does exist, to preserve what's left of his dignity, I dare not publish it. I'm sure I'm skating on pretty thin ice with him right now as it is. Hopefully he won't read this, and I know I can count on you not to mention it, right?