Dear Santa,
I’m feeling salty and it’s not because walking through Harpswell’s mineral-laden sea air is like a day at the spa.
I haven’t overindulged on those adorable reindeer cookies with salty pretzels for ears.
I’m feeling salty, Santa, because the wishes I sent to you have gone unanswered.
Is it my penmanship? Once, in college, someone saw my notes and told me I should ask my professors if I could handwrite my papers because my writing is so neat. It’s true I don’t bother with the backward or forward loop on the tail of a “q” or a “g.” I looked it up and “Q” words make up only about 1,700 out of more than a million in the English language, so I don’t think the lack of a lowercase swoop could be a sticking point.
Don’t quit on me now, Santa.
I know an easy life isn’t promised and we all experience ups and downs. It just feels darn hard right now and I know I’m not the only one who could use some magic.
Wells in Harpswell have gone dry, and without a few soaking storms to catch us up, the number of people in town who need water will grow. Most cookie recipes don’t call for H2O, so no matter what happens, you still might get snacks on Christmas Eve. But without clean water pouring out of household taps, I can’t imagine baking is a priority. We’ve had a few storms in the forecast, but they pass by with barely a sprinkle. Maybe you’re confused about what we need and you’re diverting the clouds?
As I was jotting down my wish list, Roger was packing for a long weekend with friends. He’s flying, and not on a sled pulled by Rudolph, so there’s a nonzero chance that he’ll have trouble getting home on schedule. Between clipped wings on tarmacs, engine fires, and stressing out the people we count on to manage air safety, travel is tricky.
When Roger’s away, I eat like a teenager tasting their first bites of freedom, and my A1c can’t take it. It would be nice if you could help him get home on time.
And while planes might be on the ground, prices have flown sky-high. I don’t know how everyone navigates when costs get bigger and paychecks don’t. You must be getting letters full of worry because necessities don’t feel “basic” anymore.
I’m not sure where I learned about the power of counting my blessings, but I do remember driving down Harpswell Neck Road late at night close to 20 years ago. I was overwhelmed, sad and about to dig into a deep wallow when I started counting the good things in my life. With every tick in life’s plus column, my mood got better and better. Dwelling on good things was a game-changer.
I know gratitude doesn’t fix broken systems. Its power is personal and that’s extraordinary. It makes joy possible and builds the backbone of resilience.
Good thing Harpswell is full of people who already know this trick, and they put the strength their joy builds to good use.
Cook’s Lobster & Ale House is hosting an evening in support of the Harpswell Heating Assistance Program on Dec. 6 from 4:30-8 p.m. Their invitation promises “an evening of community and friends, taking part and giving back.”
Harpswell Aging at Home helps keep our neighbors in their homes by making repairs and providing both meals and the companionship that keeps the fabric of community strong. They even offer tech support. (I wonder if there’s an age requirement for that tech help. Asking for a friend.)
And the Harpswell Santa Fund works year-round to ensure folks are fed, warm and wrapped in community. I think you know them, since they help deliver gifts at Christmas.
How lucky are you, Santa, to have all these good people working to keep our lives cheery and bright?
I suppose not having wishes granted is instructive and maybe even important. Having to figure out things for ourselves encourages problem-solving, creativity and collaboration. It gives neighbors things to talk about, and shared goals build friendships.
But Santa, I can’t remember a Christmas documentary that shows a tough-love strategy beyond the naughty list.
This past year has been loaded with possibilities gleaming through challenges. My attention span has spun out, so my focus is not a given. Through the muddle, I have found a mission I believe in. This year, with the help of extraordinary people, Journalism New England launched. We’re working to sustain the local newsrooms that build vital community connections. My parents are thriving in Portland; their dog is the hit of the building and makes daily rounds to be adored. And our medical system, which limps along, often struggling to keep up with needs, showed up for my dad with exceptional care.
Roger fixed the leaking door, even though he dreaded it because he knew it was the kind of project that was bigger than it seemed. He also reinstalled the disco ball immediately after the water-stained ceiling was fixed. He’s my person who sticks with me, especially in moments when I can’t imagine why he would.
I am the luckiest. I know the gifts I’ve been given, and though it feels hard sometimes, I will keep working on feeling joy and putting it to use.
But my gratitude only goes so far.
Santa, it’s time for you to spread some magic, so please get on the stick.
