Lugging the stand mixer downstairs from the guestroom where it hibernates from the end of one holiday season to the start of the next, I always think of my cat, Tibby. Each year, when the stand mixer took its place of prominence on the kitchen counter, Tibby would go apoplectic, dancing in circles on the floor beneath it, meowing, salivating, waiting for that first stick of butter to appear. For him, the holidays were about an endless stream of butter wrappers as I baked pies and vast quantities of cookies to be tinned and sent to friends. The butter, softened in preparation for all this holiday hoopla, always left a thin creamy film he would lick and lick in ecstasy until the waxed surface of the wrapper itself had vanished. Tibby is no longer with us. He died in July 2021 after a long and happy life, but this memory always makes me smile.

It’s good—healing, rejuvenating—to reflect on that which we love and have loved. The people and things that sustain us. That give our life purpose and joy. We live in difficult times. High on the stress count. Low on the tranquility scale. Amidst the mayhem and brutality, the pressures of a society—a world—crumbling in on itself, we need to step back periodically and remember what is beautiful, what is worth saving, worth fighting for, so that we may renew our energy to do so.

The holidays—whatever one celebrates—seem like the right moment for a rejuvenation of spirit. Yes, they’re a mindbending whirlwind of coordinating menus and finding extra chairs at the table for Uncle Dave and your stepdaughter’s new heartthrob, of picking up relatives from the airport or train station and trying to remember what size sweater your brother-in-law wears while navigating the Black Friday crowds at the mall or online. But if we can find some quiet moment, carve out some small space for reflection on that which we love, I think it will lighten our hearts. Send us into the New Year restored.

When my kids were little, I’d stay up late on Christmas eve to play Santa, bringing down the presents from their attic hiding place and arranging them under the tree. Then I’d take a post-midnight stroll around our block, the streets so still, so calm, everyone tucked up in their beds, the stars high above. Peace on earth. My little corner of it anyway. Back home, I lit the tree and turned off all the other lights. And sat. And soaked in the serenity, the goodness of being alive. Even writing about it now feels healing. Hopeful. And we need to be hopeful, we who want to save the world from its own worse tendencies.

So, as we wind down one year and await the next, I’m making a list of all the things that sustain me, that give me joy, enrich my mind, nurture my heart and soul. “Those lovely intangibles,” as Fred tells the cynical Doris in the holiday classic Miracle On 34^th Street. If this idea appeals to you, I hope you’ll reply to this post and share something from your own list of spirit boosters.

The List:

Music. I don’t know about you, but for me, music is like the soundtrack of my life. Slip in a CD or put on a vinyl disc and music transports me over the years to cherished moments. A song brings back the faces of long-ago beloved friends, dancing and drinking and gabbing the night away in our favorite café bar. A tune recalls the heady freedom of a cross-country drive as I made my way east to a new home in the land of my dreams. A dance tape I made for the occasion brings back the joyous August day I married the love of my life.

Music is also therapy. Every evening, as midnight rolls around, I take a half hour to “decompress.” My favorite songs for this include Joshua Bell’s incredibly beautiful recordings of Dvorak’s Song to the Moon and Schubert’s Ave Maria, which I first heard sung acapella by a man with a breathtaking tenor in the streets of Florence, Italy, twenty years ago.

From the Beatles to the Byrds, from Motown to Mozart, while driving or cooking or relaxing on the lawn at Tanglewood—where I can enjoy Josh Bell live—in music, I feel the strength, the continuity, the joy of my life. And the determination to fight on for my vision of a more loving, generous, peaceful world. 

Books. My greatest joy when I was three years old was the little Golden Book (19 cents!) I would get each week at the grocery store—if I was good, my mom cautioned. I was always good. I couldn’t wait to get home and open that book and discover the story. After my mom had read it to me several times, I had it memorized. By age four, I could read them myself. In college—surprise!—I majored in literature. Shakespeare, Flaubert, Faulkner, George Eliot, Fitzgerald, Hemingway, Gabriel García Márquez. And so many, many more. Reading, reflecting, discussing and writing about what I’d read. That was my “work.”  

And what did books offer me—then and in all the years since?  A multiplicity of mirrors from which to view this complex world. New ways of seeing and thinking about things and people. The ability to dig deep and make connections. And above all, the sheer pleasure of reading itself. My to-be-read pile far, far exceeds not only the limited shelf space of my house, but all reasonable life-expectancy figures. Unless I make it to 140. Hey, I’m up for the game. Bring it on.      

Theatre. When Covid struck, I feared it would be the end of live theatre. I was so relieved to discover that, indeed, the show must go on. Shakespeare at The Globe. Arthur Miller’s The Crucible at the National Theatre. Tennessee Williams’ Cat on a Hot Tin Roof in the West End. Toss in a great musical—Get Up, Stand Up! The Bob Marley Story—and like the line from the song “Take Me Out to the Ballpark,” I don’t care if I never get back.

If you haven’t done much theatre—and a sizable portion of America is a long Uber ride from a professional theatre—you may well ask: What can you get from a play that you can’t get from a film and at a fraction of the price? I would say, in great theatre there is a synergy between actors and audience that leaves you electrified. You come out of a show changed and charged by the emotions, the ideas you’ve witnessed in community with others.

Theatre was the naturally evolving bridge between the ancient storytellers who brought crowds of people together, hungry to hear tales of the human experience, and the later writing down of such tales—the Iliad and the Odyssey, credited to the Greek poet Homer, being two famous examples. But it remains a potent force in storytelling for the same reason the phonograph and the radio did not replace concerts: a live performance cannot be duplicated. The dynamics between a particular audience and the players belong to that moment. Ed and I don’t buy a lot of “stuff” (books being one exception!), but when we go to London, we go to the theatre.

The Natural World. In the great scrapbook of memories, one I often find myself returning to is a sleep-out on the shores of Lake Michigan when I was at Girl Scout camp. A warm summer’s night, the gentle slap of waves upon the sand, one of the counselors singing as she strummed her guitar—a song about becoming a woman—while we drifted off to dreamland, a zillion stars overhead.

Nothing is probably as soothing a balm to the soul as losing oneself in nature. The trees arching high above you. The vast blue dome of the sky. A world of green and calm, rivers and lakes. Nature dwarfs our human dramas, gives us respite from our struggles. I love big cities—New York, London, Paris. Love their energy, their art galleries, museums, theatres and cafes, but even there, I always seek out their green spaces. Central Park stretching from 59^th Street to 110^th.  The Jardin des Plantes in Paris. Regents Park and Kew Gardens in London. I relish them all, these urban oases. Closer to home, the Quabbin Reservoir in western Massachusetts is a revitalizing 39 square miles of nature preserve with 181 miles of shoreline.

If you haven’t let yourself get lost in the immensity of the natural world lately, I can recommend no better antidote for life’s stressors. Cleansing, rejuvenating, free to all. 

The Faces of Those We Love. Whoever said love is the greatest healer spoke a timeless truth that many physicians today acknowledge. Recall the moments you’ve waited in an airport or train station, searching the faces of the arrivals for the one you love. Suddenly they’re there and your heart leaps with happiness. Everything’s good. In times of trouble, it’s those faces we turn to for comfort. In times of joy, we look to those same faces to share the elation. Nothing can ever match the beauty, the comfort of those we love and are loved by.

Over a lifetime, we connect with many people. Some become good friends. A few become very dear friends. And, if we are lucky, we may find one very special person to share our life with. We may also have children to love and nurture. For me, those beacons of light and emotional sustenance are my husband Ed, my two adult children, Ethan and Lauren, and my dear friends of more than four decades, Pete and Maribeth. Also, my grandmother, Edna. Though all I have of her is a hand-tinted photograph from her childhood, she was the first person who taught me I was worth loving. A lifelong gift of immeasurable value.      

Into The New Year

Books and music. Theatre and the arts. The serenity of nature. The people we love. There is so much worth preserving in the world, including the world itself. And we who care about a more humane, more just, greener planet will have to do the saving. But first we must revive our own exhausted spirits. As 2023 winds down and we look toward the New Year, I wish you an oasis of love and calm this holiday season. The sustaining joy of happy memories with your nearest and dearest, and the creation of new moments to treasure. A thing of beauty is a joy forever. And yes, it is good to be alive.