Christmas Greetings – Caminobleu

After a long absence from Caminobleu, I am sharing two December morning reflections with you instead of my usual Christmas letter.

December 19, 2024

We have returned from a month in Egypt and Greece, where we immersed ourselves in the history of two ancient cultures that have influenced Western civilization for thousands of years. Yet, more than the ancient ruins and their mysteries, I was fascinated by the lives of ordinary people, the farmers and fishermen (we saw no fisherwomen) along the eternal life-giving Nile and the people still living in simple stone houses, much as their ancestors did on the small Greek island of Syros.

The herons, stilts, kingfishers, and small birds flitting through the trees and reeds along the Nile delighted me, as did the sunrises and sunsets. I was fascinated by the fishermen who rowed with clunky oars, usually two men in a boat: one young, one old. The old one handled the nets and studied the water, sometimes standing for a better view; the young one rowed, often in strong currents. I like to watch fishermen, perhaps because they remind me of my dad.

I loved the clear waters and brilliant pebbles on the Syros beaches, which reminded me of my childhood on Lake Superior. The autumn crocuses, struggling to bloom in the arid, rocky soil on the cliffs above the sea, brought back memories of autumn pilgrimages in France and Spain.

I photographed stones and waves on the beach and told Kent, “This is my happy place!”

We took a ferry to Syros, seeking quiet after the intensity and crowds of Egypt and Athens. Our six-day visit coincided with the fledgling Syros International Chamber Music Festival, now in its second year. Violinist Pinchas Zukerman was the “grand old man” among the performers and organizers, but the younger musicians, their names hitherto unknown to us, were stellar. We attended all but one of five performances in the celebrated nineteenth-century Apollon theater, said to resemble La Scala.

I was touched by the participation of school children and the somewhat disorganized festival structure (performances started late, people wandered up and down forever looking for their seats, buying tickets was cumbersome, and people clapped in the wrong places). I recalled chamber music groups from the University of Michigan performing in the school auditorium in my small hometown of Newberry, Michigan, when one affable female violinist slept on our couch and shared our small bathroom without complaint. My parents faithfully attended the performances, enjoying the rare opportunity to experience what my dad called “highbrow culture.”

For information on the Syros festival, the music played, and the biographies of the distinguished musicians, see: https://www.meet-the-violins.org/en/events

December 11, 2024

In October, we met Rebecca Reynolds at an author event she shared with Kent at Albuquerque’s Books on the Bosque. Although we’d just met, she cleverly used Kent’s decision to run away to sea as an example of an individual choosing to make a momentous change in his life. When Iwoke up this morning to begin reading the book, I found the first chapter of Thresholds of Change (Denver: Connolly Fox, 2024, so inspiring I stopped reading and wrote the following:

I am captivated by Reynolds’ use of the metaphor of the chambered nautilus. The nautilus creates new spiraled chambers as it grows, sealing each chamber except for one thread of living connective tissue called the siphuncle. As Reynolds describes it, “A core life-giving line that provides ballast and connects us to all parts of our lives, even those we’ve left behind.”

“The journey is what’s truly important.” Our experiences in life are not “over and done.” They are all connected.

As a pilgrim who sees my life as a journey, I like the concept of a living thread connecting all parts of my life.

I recall Tennyson’s poem “Ulysses.”

“I am a part of all that I have met.” These words mean more at eighty than they did at seventeen when I first read them in Miss Dwyer’s English class. I remember Miss Dwyer not only for what she taught but for her enthusiasm and implied belief in the importance of her subject matter. Through the siphuncle, the presence of Miss Dwyer and many family members, friends, and mentors connect my past and present.

At Miss Dwyer’s urging, we chose the final words of “Ulysses” as our Class of 1962 motto: “To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.” (How many of you remember your high school class motto?) This morning, I reread the poem in tears because I, too, now look back “from that sad height” (Dylan Thomas’s “Do not go gentle into that good night”) and reflect on the meaning and purpose of life from the perspective of old age.

Perhaps we live to love, learn, and grow in preparation for whatever comes next.

The dear friends I’m losing with increasing frequency remain part of my life forever. Sometimes, like this morning, my memories of them emerge through that life-giving core when they are least expected and most needed.

We have returned to a different America than the one we left. As the chaos and my feelings of foreboding intensify during this week before Christmas, I watch, wait, and pray for light to come as the world turns and the sacred sun returns.

“Yet all experience is an arch wherethro’
Gleams that untravell’d world, whose margin fades
For ever and for ever when I move.”

“Come, my friends, ‘Tis not too late to seek a newer world.” – Tennyson, “Ulysses.”

Linnea and Kent at the Acropolis early in the morning

Links to the poems:

Poems: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/45392/ulysses

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/46569/do-not-go-gentle-into-that-good-night

December 29, 2025

I wish you all light, strength, and happiness in the new year. And thank you to all who sent cards in the mail. I will write to you individually.

Holy Metropolitan Church of the Annunciation to the VIrgin Mary, Athens, Greece

Please also see our JacanaPress.com blog for news relating to We Ran Away to Sea, which to our surprise and delight has recently earned three awards .

It is one week before Christmas Eve, and I’m still not feeling the Christmas spirit, despite participating in Advent readings with a small group and attending a glorious performance of Handel’s Messiah. I brought the Swedish straw goat and a wooden Santa Claus up from the basement and put a wreath on the door this evening. Decorating done, maybe.

I was briefly tempted by the pretty Christmas trees from Mora, NM in the lot on 4^th Street, but the thought of putting everything up and taking it down deterred me. I have not baked a single cookie (yet) or bought anyone Christmas presents (besides a tip to our faithful newspaper carrier). I’ve invited guests for Christmas dinner but have not come up with a menu. Unless we get inspired, we will not set out luminaria on Christmas Eve as we did last year when the neighbors came to the end of the driveway for hot cider and cookies, happy to see each other, even in our masks, after the long months of lockdown.

Kent and I were relieved to get our first Covid vaccinations in February and March – thinking soon Covid would be gone, and we could resume life as we knew it. As we all know, that did not happen, although the threat of death was much lessened. We traveled to San Francisco several times, happy to see the family and take long walks. In August we drove to Wyoming for a gathering of Kent’s high school class, and in October and November we ventured on our first pandemic era foreign trip to Mexico City, Puebla, and Oaxaca.

We have much to be grateful for, but I am feeling sad for the future of the world. My generation, in the 1960s railed at what our parents had done, but now we are leaving behind a worse mess. Tomorrow, one full week before Christmas, would be my father’s 120^th birthday. He was born on December 18, 1901, and although he suffered from a burst appendix, smallpox, and tuberculosis, and survived the 1918 flu pandemic, he lived to be 90 years old. After more than thirty years without them, I still miss my parents.

We worked extensively on Kent’s book We Ran Away to Sea, writing and re-writing several times and cutting out enough stories to fill another book. We hope to finish it in 2022.

I participated in the local photography club through meetings via Zoom and moved out of the beginner level in the exhibitions, although I still struggle with Lightroom, Photoshop, and my camera. The judges especially liked some of the pictures taken through the glass of our small bathroom’s shower. So much for traveling to get good pictures!

Last night just at sunset, I drove to La Montanita Co-Op to replenish our supply of rye crisp. The Sandia Mountains glowed deep pink, as they often do in winter. When I returned, the light had faded, but a perfect full moon now hung over the deep-blue peaks. Had I looked more carefully earlier, I might have seen the pink mountains and the rising moon together, but I missed the opportunity.

Despite my lack of Christmas spirit, I don’t want to miss this opportunity to wish you all the blessings and joys of the season. May our hope be renewed. When I asked Kent if I should add anything, he said, “How about a little cheer?”