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My late husband and I built a log cabin on Mesa Poleo in the early 70s. We did not inhabit it too long, just over two years but that time is an indelible part of my existence all of these years later. Lynn Zotalis, Hippie at Heart  Cerro Pedernal, the infamous northern New Mexico landmark…
the mesa peak I always wanted to hike up but in the years I lived so near, just a few miles away past Youngsville between Coyote and Gallina, I never attempted it and now? The peak requires a steep hike on very loose rock, a short, Class 3 wall, and a narrow, exposed trail eight miles up and back. I just may have missed this one now bowing to my muscles that require continual preservation or maybe it’s conservation, nonetheless, definite constraints undeniable but not ready to admit defeat. Certainly limits that can be quite unforgiving at this stage of my life, for instance, I’m resigned to no more cartwheels. Well, pretty much. I’m forced to be reasonable, sensible, oof, I do not like that moniker but now I often have conversations with my peers about mindfulness exhorting them and me to watch where we walk to avoid missteps, to stay upright. DON’T FALL! especially when I consider the consequences, how traumatic brain injury may result. Aging is not for sissies. It is a shock, that gut check noticing the changes now so blatantly undisguised. Drooping lids, jowls, neck waddle following down, down, down to these appaloosa legs, one might say roan. Mottled, spotted, splotchy, red and purply stippled. Could be reshod? Arms peppered, freckled brown spots like a connect-the-dots puzzle. The gray streaked mane, tow head to platinum, even though gradual it was notable the year it morphed. Did you know that green chili synthesizes collagen, reduces inflammation for healthier aging? Now that’s the best reason for consuming vast amounts of my favorite stew. I’m truly not that obsessed with the decade’s effects upon this body, I continue to take notice, to appreciate the days, the waning years as they take their toll, unescapable father time. I reevaluate what’s treasured, and of course, family is paramount. Precious photos in my faded albums, innocent, tender faces, the imprints etched deeply upon my heart. Those old albums are stored with easy access, staged for rescue from any disaster. Possessions are one thing, I’d relinquish them all, save for those memories stored in 3 x 3 images. I take some comfort in the fact that I live in the middle, New Mexico, far from rising oceans, oceans that possess too much melancholy for me personally. I ponder all of the ones that have passed on, try to make sense of loss and I must resign questions to fate, a conscious effort to let go and release those to the other side submitting to the seasons as trees shed their leaves transmogrifying back to the earth. What’s happened to my face, my body, tells the story of experience, the love, the laughter, the tears I speak gratefulness to the lumps and lines, the hues and patterns that weave history and memory together in one unique crazy quilt, blanketing my shoulders, wrapping it around absolving absorbing the imprint every single thread holds, the elegantly designed material of life resonant in wakening waves of understanding.
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 By Abbot Christian
Christ in the Desert Monastery The first thing that may surprise our families and friends about a Monastery Christmas is that we do not start decorating for the Solemnity until December 24th. No trees or decorations are visible in the church, refectory or corridors, inside or out, until the “Night Before Christmas.” Why is that? Christmastide technically begins, in the Catholic Liturgical Calendar, at First Vespers of Christmas, that is, the eventide of December 24th. By then, but not before, trees are decorated, lights are strewn, poinsettias are in place, and the festivities begin. Our Christmas celebrations on December 24th include significant time in church, chanting the Divine Offices of Vespers, then a little later, Christmas Vigils and culminating in the celebration of Midnight Mass, as December 24th turns into December 25th. After Mass the monks as well as our resident guests and visitors are treated to a festive breakfast (yes, at 1:30 am!), including scrambled eggs, turkey bacon, muffins and more, then off to rest for the monks and guests, and the visitors typically return to their homes, presumably to rest as well. On the morning of December 25th we pray the Office of Lauds and celebrate Mass of Christmas Day later in the morning, at 11:00 am. In the afternoon, after the Office of None (the Ninth Hour), we have our principal meal of the day, usually something quite special and delicious, though a surprise every year, and prepared by our monks, as are all our meals in the Monastery. While many people start taking down Christmas decorations and lights within a day or so after Christmas, we monks maintain the mood of comfort and joy which the Christmas Season always brings, for the succeeding “Twelve Days of Christmas.” We cannot be stopped or even slowed down, as we rejoice in the reality and mystery of God-with-us, Emmanuel, who has come that we might have life and have it in abundance. We suggest to all to consider the “monastery pattern” regarding the celebration of Christmas this year. It may take some adjusting to, but hopefully worth every minute of it, to celebrate with less commercialism, and place the emphasis on the true meaning and spirit of Christmas, when Christ entered time to bring us to eternity. Some wonderful words from the Norwegian-Danish novelist Sigrid Undset, who lived from 1882 to 1949, come to mind here: “And when we give each other Christmas gifts in His name, let us remember that He has given us the sun and the moon and the stars, and the earth with its forests and mountains and oceans—and all that lives and moves upon them. He has given us all green things and everything that blossoms and bears fruit and all that we quarrel about and all that we have misused—and to save us from our foolishness, from all our sins, He came down to earth and gave us Himself.”  ~Hilda Joy
We reshare this recipe from 2020 This recipe came to mind recently when a friend asked me if I remembered drinking gluhwein with her many years ago at Chicago’s annual December Christchild Market. Indeed, I do remember. I also remember enjoying salty warm pretzels and bratwurst. For several years, I made gluhwein at home and drank it out of the souvenir mug in which I first enjoyed its warmth at the frosty outdoor market, the largest in the world outside of Germany. Then one year, I dropped the mug, breaking it. Oh well, I can still enjoy the glowing warmth of gluhwein. Now in 2020, the Year of Covid-19, this wondrous fairytale market that has enchanted adults as well as children has gone virtual, like so many of the things we have perhaps taken for granted. Literally meaning ‘glowing wine,’ this German drink will give you a glow of warmth during the lengthening days leading to the Winter Solstice. Traditionally served at every outdoor Kriskindlmarkt (Christchild Market) that springs up during Advent in German and Austrian cities and towns, it also hits the spot indoors, especially in front of a roaring or glowing fire. Ingredients 1 bottle dry red wine, 750 ml and inexpensive 6 whole cloves 2 cinnamon sticks Optionally: 4 star anise pods 2 juniper berries 2 cardamom pods 1/4 cup sugar, brown or white 1 orange, sliced Directions Empty wine into a medium-sized saucepan set on medium heat. When wine is heated, add spices. Add sugar and stir until dissolved. Lower heat. Slice orange and cut each slice in half. Add slices to pot, simmering all for about 10 minutes At this point, gluhwein is ready to serve, but it could simmer for a longer period on very low heat to perfume one’s home with its sweet spicy aroma. EnJoy  Hebe Garcia sends in this recipe of Holiday Cheer
Coquito is a popular Christmas coconut rum nog traditionally served in Puerto Rico. This is my mother’s egg-free recipe which has an ice cream twist. Sprinkle with ground cinnamon or nutmeg and serve. Cheers! Prep Time: 10 minutes Additional Time: 8 hours Ingredients 1 (15 oz) can cream of coconut 1 (14 oz) can sweetened condensed milk 1 (12 oz) can evaporated milk 1 cup coconut-flavored rum ¼ cup water 1 scoop vanilla bean ice cream 1 tsp vanilla extract 2 cinnamon sticks 2 whole cloves 1 pinch ground cinnamon 1 pinch ground nutmeg Directions
Note: When I opened my News letter from Christ in the Desert I was immediately drawn to the essay "Chicago Christmas Carol". I'm from Chicago and my name is Carol. Shared with permission.  By Brother Chrysostom
The theme of this newsletter referenced community. While at the writers’ residency this summer I learned about flash fiction (a short story consisting of less than 1500 words). I wish to share with you a Christmas themed piece that showcases a community that I love and that shaped me, Chicago. I have learned as a monastic that it is what we bring from the communities that formed us to the monastery that creates the vibrancy of intimacy between monks. I hope the story achieves a threefold purpose: 1) sharing the fruits of a Creative Writing MFA with supporters of our Educational Appeal, 2) sharing Chicago with a wider audience, and 3) building a monastic community where art and letters complement evangelization. I hope you enjoy it. Merry Christmas. Aunt Jane is my mother’s older sister and my favorite aunt. Every early December after the first of the holiday specials--Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer, A Charlie Brown Christmas, Santa Clause is Coming to Town--airs on ABC and CBS, Aunt Jane arranges for me and her to have our Chicago Christmas. It is late Sunday morning. Mom and Dad have gone to 8:00 am Mass at Our Lady of Peace. They let me sleep in. I miss Frisky. He had to be put to sleep three days ago because the vet told us that his problems wouldn’t get any better. I am a big boy. I can understand. I am almost ten years old and I can stay at home alone while my parents go to Mass three short blocks away. When they come home, I want to stay in bed. They will get me out of bed and rush me to get ready because Aunt Jane is coming over soon. I wash up quickly, put on my brown thick cord corduroy pants, my cordovan Buster Brown shoes, t-shirt, clean white collar shirt, and a crew neck sweater with bands of light brown and black. I make sure that my afro is neat and fluffy with my pick in front of the bathroom mirror. I hear the horn of Aunt Jane’s 1970 Blue Dodge Dart outside. Quick kisses and hugs from my mother and father and a rush to grab my loden coat, knit skull cap, scarf, and mittens heralds the metallic clang of the storm door closing behind me. I bound down the steps while humming the finale of A Charlie Brown Christmas. The soles of my Buster Brown shoes make scuffed tracks in the thin layer of snow to the back door of Aunt Jane’s car. No sooner do I close the door and kiss the back of her neck, which has the chemical smell of the relaxer that her hairdresser uses, than the car is gliding down our neighborhood toward Lake Shore Drive. We are going downtown. Downtown! Snowmen, nutcrackers, and Santas populate the front yards of the neat bungalows we pass along the way. Strings of lights outline doorways and wrap around exterior ferns and trees. The lights excite me, but I know that the lights on State Street are better. Aunt Jane finds parking easily on Madison Avenue and we get out of the car and walk a block or so to St Peter’s Catholic Church. Aunt Jane works for Catholic Charities downtown and attends Mass here most mornings before starting her work day. She loves this church with its high ceilings. The Franciscans in their brown robes and knotted rope belts and sandals are happy to see us. She likes the Franciscans, too. We make it in time for Mass. There are no Christmas decorations. The outside world with lights and decorations doesn’t know that Christmas is still a week and days away. They don’t care. They are going to have Christmas before the baby Jesus even comes at Midnight Mass! I kneel down before Mass and say a prayer for Frisky. One of the Franciscan priests comes over and hugs Aunt Jane as I pray. I want to ask him if dogs go to heaven, but I don’t. After Mass we file out of church into the cold with some other people and make our way to Marshall Fields & Company. I can read street signs. We take a left down Clark Street and then up Washington Street. Aunt Jane wants to show me the Picasso in Daley Plaza. It reminds me of a dragon, but the large Christmas tree close by makes it less scary. The large jutting clocks on the corner of the Marshall Fields & Company department store look so heavy. I don’t want them to crush me. The illuminated faces on the clock have hands that mean something to me. I can tell time. It was 12:20 pm. We pass through a heavy revolving door into a Christmas palace. A large Christmas tree higher than my house stands in the middle of the store. Gold, silver, red, and blue bulbs hang off branches. There are also rocking horses, tin soldiers, teddy bears, clowns, elves, and other presents decorating the biggest Christmas tree I have ever seen. Aunt Jane holds my hand tightly and we wind through the cosmetic section, the chocolate section, and the handbag section to one of the many wooden escalators that will take us up to the Walnut Room. We pass my favorite floor, the 4th floor, that has toys. But, I don’t care. There is a long wait in line to eat lunch. My legs are getting tired, but we are finally seated at a table next to the top of the huge Christmas tree that we saw when we first came in. A model train is making its way around a track above our heads. We order hamburgers which came with special French fries that were almost like fat potato chips. I don’t like my hamburger because the bun has butter on the inside. “Herbert, eat your hamburger, the butter is supposed to make it moist,” Aunt Jane said. I eat my hamburger, but I want a McDonald’s Quarter Pounder with cheese. After lunch, Aunt Jane goes shopping in the ladies’ section which goes up several floors. I ask if I could go to the 4th floor and look at the toys. Aunt Jane agrees, but tells me to wait for her down there. I have fun looking at the space ships and castles. The large die cast toy cars are my favorite. Buried within the mound of Gund animals of different sizes is a dog that looked like Frisky. I like it. But I want a real dog. I so hope Santa would bring me the Batmobile with the launching rockets that I want. When we leave Marshall Fields & Company the large three faced clock on the corner of Randolph and State reads 3:30 pm. As the sky grows darker and the Christmas lights along State Street grow brighter, Aunt Jane and I join the procession of Christmas window gazers who joyfully file by animated windows of Christmas scenes for the next five blocks. Large department stores like Carson Pirie Scot, Sears, Montgomery Ward, Wiebolt’s, and Goldblatt’s each Christmas season deck their windows with Santas, reindeer, snowmen, and elves. Aunt Jane who is much taller than I sees it before I do. She puts her hands on the shoulders of my loden coat and leads me through the crowd closer to the corner of the store. At the last Marshall Fields & Company window before crossing Washington Street to Carson’s, there was a winter wonderland scene with children ice skating, throwing snowballs, and sledding down hills. In the corner of the snow scene is a lone boy and a dog playing catch. The boy doesn’t look like me at all, he has yellow blonde hair, but the dog looks just like Frisky! I smile at Aunt Jane and she hugs me. Hark the Herald Angels Sing is playing on a speaker at Carson Pirie Scot across the street. Snow is coming down. Aunt Jane takes my hand and leads me away from the Frisky in the window. She knows that Santa would have Max, a small wirehaired terrier puppy, under my Christmas tree soon. |
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