Today, in honor of my mother’s birthday, I will share a hot tip: find a partner who sees and admires you enough to take pictures of you as beautiful as the ones my father took of my mother.
San Francisco, California, 1971
My mother, Patricia H., was an East Coast native who took to Northern California and its terrain and culture like a cat to a warm shaft of sunlight. She stayed for nearly two decades, living and loving. Besides her work as a spiritual healer, she counted caring for me and my dad and tending a large abundant organic Sonoma County garden (that fed our family of three for years) as her greatest joys.
Yosemite, California 1974
A woman both vibrant and quietly confident, her boisterous grinning laugh used to take over her body while her head bobbed slightly to the infectious beat. She affectionately called me Chickadee and to me, her only child, time seemed to pause while I took in the beauty of her laugh.
Honolulu, Hawaii, 1969
A memory of her laughing will remain forever in my mind’s eye, but I also like to keep a photo of her in the act above my writing desk. In the image, taken by my father, my mother and I enjoy a humorous moment at my fourth birthday party.
Cocoa Beach, Florida, 1975
Unbelievably, my mother has been gone for nearly twenty-one years now. Thankfully, photographs play a vital role in keeping her image alive. My children never had a chance to meet their maternal grandmother but I hope that they can gaze at her photographs (and some video) and imagine her as part of their experience.
1979
Because she still is.
Larkspur, California 1977
My mother’s career as a spiritual healer meant she helped people learn about divine Love. She had a gift for facilitating trust and understanding that resulted in true healing. I often think about how the world could really use her prayers right about now, but I also believe she is still actively sending them our way.
Imagine a cold, dark Christmas Eve in a hilly suburban Southern Indiana neighborhood. Bare tree branches and stout bristly pines reach toward the sky while silent snowflakes float gently down from the heavens, coming to rest in a soft pile on the curb next to the candle-lit glow of a white paper bag.
If you slow at the crest of the highest hill in the neighborhood, right at the spot where the street makes a satisfying downhill curve, your gaze will be rewarded with two parallel lines of those illuminated paper bags, appearing as widely spaced train tracks leading downhill toward something…promising. Perhaps they lead to Christmas Day, or simply a peace-filled, snowy, sacred night.
But this isn’t an imagined holiday tale, it’s a true story, one with a 45-year-long history behind it. The story of our humble neighborhood luminaria display highlights something missing from modern life, an aspect most of us hardly realize has crumbled away in the face of our perpetually busy and forward-propelled lives: shared, meaningful traditions.
When my husband and I moved to this neighborhood we weren’t looking for tradition, or even friendship necessarily. Our children were only one and two and mostly we were looking for increased living space, room for our kids to roam safely, and fewer screaming sirens.
Ours is an unpretentious gathering of about 30 houses sitting on wide streets with sprawling yards that feature some landscaping and other sections left wild. Mature oak, maple, and ash trees tower above. Two cul de sacs and a clear “No Outlet” sign keep people from using the three main streets as a cut-through and maintain a cozy, private quality.
Once we arrived in our new house it didn’t take long for us to learn about the luminarias. An envelope appeared in our mailbox soliciting a donation toward the “Neighborhood Christmas Eve Luminaries” and the frosty became crystal clear—our new landing spot took this new-to-us display seriously.
Drivers and walkers are lured in by the snaking glow. Photo Credit: Tom Stryker
The annual tradition, once featured in our town’s local newspaper, requires many hands to accomplish. Here’s the inside scoop: at around 2 pm on Christmas Eve, volunteers begin gathering in the appointed cul de sac driveway (or inside the host’s garage if temps are low enough which has been known to happen). People graze at a side table displaying a variety of treats carried carefully over in gloved hands…homemade cookies, crock pots of chili, mulled cider, and cocoa. Kids of all ages thread excitedly through clusters of chatting grown-ups.
Let the luminaria assembly begin!
Other long tables hold a variety of supplies, white paper bags, buckets of sand, and boxes of sturdy white candles. People line up eagerly and begin the process: open the paper bag, fold back the top, pass the bag to the left, add sand, pass to the left again, add candle. Next, the filled bag (hold it by the bottom!!) is handed to someone who shuffles it over to the back of a truck bed. Once the truck bed is chock-full of bags the loaded vehicle slowly moves throughout the neighborhood while a few hearty souls (often the kids) deposit the bags on top of pre-marked spots along each street.
Young elves enjoying their work. Photo credit: Shirley Megnin
But what isn’t obvious at those assembly tables is the backstory behind this tradition or the preparation and planning that goes on all year to pull off a seamless appearance on one special night. Over 400 candles are ordered! Over time lessons have been learned: the cheaper the bag the more likely the bottom will tear, open the bags of sand early so wetness doesn’t ruin the container. Avoid piling bags on top of each other.
Many (small) hands make light work of setting up the bags.
I recently discovered that the first neighborhood display happened in 1978 (or 1979, no one is exactly sure). Early luminaria display pioneers deserve full credit for building interest in and respect for the still-thriving tradition. Responsibility for the supplies and location of the luminaria assembly has bounced around over the decades with different individuals, landing most recently with some particularly generous and fun-loving folks (entirely in character for one of the families who regularly provide the social glue for a variety of neighborhood happenings).
My own family has participated in the luminarias for nine consecutive years but this year, as I stood at the table shoulder-to-shoulder with my neighbors/friends, filling paper bags with scoops of sand and quickly passing so that a candle could be added, I finally grasped that something beyond mere neighborliness was going on. I listened to people talk, laugh, and reminisce and watched kids, including my own, climb up onto the back of the tailgate and clutch each other with glee as the truck lurched off to make holiday magic. Could it be that adults crave shared traditions as much as children do?
It takes a village to bring the display to life and light.
It’s not as if our neighborhood is perfect, or that we haven’t collectively faced the difficulties of life: we have our human disagreements and misunderstandings, former keepers of the luminaria tradition have passed away, or moved. A fair amount of folks who live in our neighborhood pass on participating entirely (no one judges).
Around sundown on Christmas Eve residents begin to step out of their houses wielding long electric lighters, calling out to each other and visiting each bag to bring individual candles to vibrant life (last year the wind was so frigid I abandoned my responsibilities entirely and fled inside leaving others to pick up my lighting slack). A couple of hours later cars slowly begin to file into our neighborhood, some gliding by with headlights turned off, others blaring Christmas music with the windows rolled down. The drive-bys continue throughout Christmas Eve, even into the wee hours. Someone once said they counted two hundred cars, each passing through to bask in the glow of our simple yet magical neighborhood offering.
The years without snow possess their own beauty.
My favorite part of the whole affair comes late on Christmas Eve, sometimes so late that it has become Christmas Day. The presents are wrapped, stockings are hung, cookies carrots and milk are appealingly arranged on the hearth. I’m the last one awake, everyone else is nestled all snug in their beds. Illuminated only by the lights of the Christmas tree I stand and peer through the front window.
Outside the line of burning candles stretches off into the darkness, each offering their light and hope to the quiet and peaceful night. It’s time for the neighborhood to rest.
Still...however...maybe... 
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