Sunshine Soup

When I have someone in my life who is enduring something tough, just like you, I want to do something for them. With food a universal currency of comfort, I've made what I call "Sunshine Soup" my new offering. I prefer savory to sweet, and this soup is a unique alternative to baked goods or casseroles. It's a simple labor of love, easily deliverable, unexpected, and unencumbered. This soup is healthy and safe for gluten free and vegan friends; it's easy to cook in about an hour; and it's like a sunshiney warm hug. 

The recipe below is the vegan version of a carrot ginger soup with potential substitutions in parentheses.  I tend to adjust quantities as I cook, but I know these ratios below make a wonderfully smooth and creamy soup. Make your own soup thicker or thinner, tarter or sweeter, milder or spicier, etc... The recipe can be halved to make less than a full pot.  Adding curry powder or yellow Thai curry paste would easily make a Curry Carrot version (yum). This soup tastes great hot and even lukewarm--a winner for all seasons.

Sunshine Soup (Carrot Ginger)

Ingredients:

• 3 lbs of whole carrots, peeled and chopped in chunks
• One white onion, chopped
• I added two small sweet potatoes to today's batch, peeled and chopped, but this is optional
• A bunch of garlic, chopped
• A sizeable knob of ginger, peeled and chopped--I prefer light ginger, so add more at this stage if you want "ginger forward" flavor
• One seeded and chopped jalapeno or Thai chili, depending on your/friends' spice tolerance
• Coconut oil or olive oil--enough to saute onions and garlic (substitute butter if desired)
• A carton of vegetable broth (or chicken if desired)
• Two cans of coconut milk (milk or cream if desired)--Note:  this soup can also be made WITHOUT coconut milk if that's not your jam--to keep it vegan, add more broth to reach desired consistency at the blender stage
• Salt to taste
• 1TBS turmeric
• 1/2 to 1 cup citrus juice--I squeezed orange into the soup initially and then lime and lemon into later to taste, making it "brighter"

Making the Soup:

• In a sizeable pot, saute onion, garlic, ginger, and jalapeno in oil until onions are tender/translucent
• Add carrots (and optional sweet potato), turmeric, and juice; saute for a bit and then add broth
• Bring vegetables in broth to a boil and then simmer on low for 15-20 minutes until carrots are soft/easily cut through with a spoon
• Remove pot from heat; add a can of coconut milk and stir
• Blend with immersion blender (or in portions in a blender) until smooth.  My soup was too thick without the second can of coconut milk and was perfect after I added it.  Blend until smooth and creamy.  At this stage I added more citrus in squeezes until the soup tasted just right (IYKYK--and it's your own taste buds that know :))

Possible Garnishes/Toppings:

• I like a little dash of carraway seed with my carrot soup--pictured above.  Crunchy roasted chick peas are also awesome
• A friend who received this soup added her own seed mix on top for some crunch/texture, including pumpkin, sunflower, chia, and hemp seeds (this friend also claims the soup makes a great salad dressing!?)
• Cilantro (or a dollop of cilantro lime pesto?) would be delicious too, along with some sour cream/yogurt
• French fried/crunchy onions

Warm sunshiney hugs come in many versions and forms.  I hope you give and receive many!

The Nose Rings True

 

In February 2022, Middle Sis and I went together to get our noses pierced.  She was 16 years old and I was 51, and so she (minor) needed me there, with her birth certificate and my approval in hand, while I needed to fulfill my own longing. 

I have wanted to pierce my nose for most of my adult life but talked myself out of it for decades, mainly prompted by What Other People Might Think. My desire remained steady while I grew increasingly aware of other 40-to-50-year-old women with new sparkles in their noses. And then came the era of living and consorting with representatives of a generation of young adults who don't understand how piercings and tattoos have anything to do with their character and heart and efficacy and don't fear loss of jobs, reputations, and respect as a result (of course, time will tell if there are any lingering "ragrets," tattoo removals, or unadorned piercing holes left to close up.  And then they'll be like any other aging generation, with their shoulda woulda couldas accompanied by shrugs).  

As for me, I knew immediately after our appointment that I loved my nose ring, and two years later, I am still giddily happy about it and have forgiven myself for not having it done earlier, while vowing to wear a nose ring through my dying day.  Part of the celebration is, after all, that I did the thing I always wanted to do, finally at 50+ years old, and it wasn't too late and I still have my job and my family, and I was right about wanting it all along.  There are even intermittent unexpected compliments from friends, acquaintances, and new-to-me-people which pop up here and there to make me really feel good about how many times Evan has helped me through my Piercing Problems.

I think there are all sorts of ways to get your nose or ears pierced, including by your bestie or a complete stranger with ice and a safety pin or needle in a bedroom or dorm room or party and/or with a teenager armed with a piercing gun at a mall jewelry store, but these times (including Tootsie's ear piercing for her 9th birthday) we opted to make appointments at a dedicated piercing place with crystals and geodes and succulents and a private room where you lie down and Evan, one of the gentlest, kindest humans I've met, talks you through the experience and urges you to listen and follow all the guidance and be responsible about the wound you agreed to have inflicted and then come back in a few months to change out your piercing when you are so moved.  

By September of 2022 I was ready to shorten my nose ring post and upgrade to a sparkly little flower stud, which sat flatter on my fully-healed nose and didn't get caught on so many things as the original stud.  I think I would have lived happily ever after with that very cute silver-petaled jewel I had no reason to take out.

Except for my annual stint as Elf on the Shelf.  

In 2019, my second year as principal at the elementary school, I adopted an idea from my sister-in-law, whose admin team posed on the roof of their high school on the last day of school before the holidays in Elf costumes.  I initiated a tradition of perching myself in various spots still as a statue, much to the delight and wonderment of my students, who guessed but couldn't confirm the Elf's identity as Principal of our School.  

But then on December 2022, at recess, one particular student let me know he knew it was me up there on the ledge because of my nose ring.

I thought about that all year long going into Elf Season 2023.  And during my early AM Elf Transformation, in my thorough attempt to sustain plausible deniability, I dutifully took out my earrings and the nose ring, consisting of two parts, and safely put them away to be restored during my transition back to Madam Principal in Street Clothes + Other Identifying Accessories.  

But I grossly miscalculated how difficult it would be to stick the back post through a hole in my nose from inside my nostril and then pop the stud into the post from the outside.  I think the second part would have been easy if I could have just achieved the first part.  

I dropped both pieces into the sink (which I lined with paper towels just in case) multiple times and should have given up early and resumed more important Principal Duties, but I was determined to be visible as the Principal with the Nose Ring vs. Elf with No Nose Ring.  

Finally, almost as predicted, the stud part bounced or popped out onto the floor and I could NOT find it, not with my phone flashlight, not with a broom, not with paper towels wiping the entire floor, and not with well-meaning colleagues all taking a gander.  I was so ANNOYED.  I was annoyed as well as embarrassed about caring so much about maintaining Elf Identity, and then even more annoyed and embarrassed about caring so much about my nose ring. Filled with exasperation with myself, I took the post part that remained and stuck it in my nose backwards so the flat disc part was at least visible outside and keeping my nose piercing pierced, albeit loosely.  

I spent the rest of the day getting over myself and also making sure that unsecured post stayed put in my nose until I could get home and try again to attach my original stud.

The next episode in this story involves my futile attemtps at home to stick that little post through the inside of my nostril through to the outside.  I could not make it work with a finger and that tiny post in my nose.  So I tried using tweezers, but I would either not squeeze the tweezers tightly enough, and the post would fall back out of my nose into the sink, or I'd squeeze too hard and the post would pop out of the tweezers and also fall right out.  Clearly, the responsible thing was to give up again and go back to Evan for help.  Instead, I persisted.  Until that time I squeezed too hard (again) and felt the post pop out of the tweezers but not into the sink and then not onto the floor in any place I could find it.  I searched and searched and searched because.  BECAUSE THE ONLY OTHER SCENARIO WAS THAT THE POST SPRUNG OUT OF THE TWEEZERS AND UP INTO MY NOSE AND THEN QUITE POSSIBLY INTO MY LUNGS OR SINUSES.

And as soon as I thought of this possibility I could not unthink it.  

I tried aggressive nose blowing in hopes the tiny metal thingamajig would safely come out of my nasal cavity with no success.

I turned to Google, which did not help.  There were stories of infections and surgeries and x-ray photos of tiny metallic objects embedded in sinuses or lung tissue.  

Meanwhile, it the weekend before Christmans with family in town and shopping to finish and events to attend and in the back of my mind I was wondering if I needed to go to Urgent Care if not just to reassure myself I didn't do the thing I was going to be embarrassed to tell anyone was a possibility. But that sounded like a whole day I might regret.

I decided to carry on for the time being with a variety of unsecured studs and even a hoop in my nose (not my best look) accompanied by frequent deep breaths to check for pain and/or shortness of breath.  I scheduled an appointment with Evan for the day after Christmas to replace both lost parts, because it wasn't like I was going to stop having a nose ring, even if my lungs were possibly inflamed. I was willing to live with the hope/uncertainty that the post was an inconsequential new part of my body, like a pin in a joint or bone.

December 26th arrived, the day of the appointment to get a new nose ring professionally installed.  That morning in the quiet after-holiday lull, I set about cleaning, including sweeping the bathroom and bedroom floors, floors I'd swept thoroughly in search of that missing post.  

And yet, somehow, a couple sweeps in, I just happened to look down and just SOMEHOW happened to notice that tiny grey 3mm post on the floor.  

Suddenly I DID NOT HAVE TO LIVE THE REST OF MY LIFE wondering where the HECK that little thing was.  

In a new euphoric state of non-anxiety, I went to the piercing place and chose a new stud--this time a gold sunburst with a sparkly center.  And I loved this new nose ring EVEN MORE than the last, especially because it came paired with the post I found on the floor instead of in my lungs or grey matter.   

While Evan expertly installed my post and new stud, I explained the whole saga in a relieved, knee-slapping, isn't it funny that I thought I had that thing in my lungs? kind of way, and he patiently reminded me it was only $5 to have him put my nose ring back in, using tools.  

I enjoyed that sunburst nose ring all the way up until one day in late April.  

That morning in the shower, as I reached up to lather my face with soap, one of my finger rings caught on my nose ring and popped it off the post.  It flew somewhere, and when I looked down, I knew it was more than likely that it went immediately down the drain.  Nevertheless, I commenced a soggy search of the shower, covering the drain, wiping the floor systematically with my hands, and then with paper towels in hopes of finding that sparkly needle in a haystack. 

This time, I could only shake my head at myself resignedly and keep the post in from the back precariously until I could get back to the piercing place to buy YET ANOTHER STUD.  This time, with the backing still installed inside my nostril, I only needed to pick a new nose ring and pop it into the post myself.  The sunbursts were apparently out of stock, so I went back to the silver flower design.  They told me I could not put it in while I was in the store, and then gave me the helpful advice NOT to try to put it in in my car, which of course was going to be my first impulse. 

I enjoyed that silver flower sparkle stud all the way up until last weekend. 

On Friday afternoon I heard the news that a dear friend's biopsy results included cancer cells.  On Saturday morning I learned that our close family friend's cancer prognosis had changed for the worse.  And then a family member shared more life-altering news.  I spent the afternoon in a sort of preparatory grief.

I took a late shower in the afternoon, after a run and various chores and errands.  At the end of my shower I stooped over to scrub the corners of the stall with the brush we keep in there for that purpose.  The first thing that caught my eye was a small strong, circular magnet we use for photos on our fridge, the kind that sometimes attaches to other metallic objects and can occasionally be found on the floor of the kitchen.  I wondered how it found its way to our shower.  

The next thing that caught my eye was that little gold sunburst stud.  The one I lost two months and many showers and scrubbings ago in April.  There it was.  Not lost, not down the drain.  Still unexpectedly there.  

And this time, instead of celebratory relief at finding it, I felt a moment of well, hey, there you are, the thing I lost and maybe mourned a little, but now feels so simply replaceable, even over and over again.  It's like it showed up to remind me you can have your nose ring back--actually, it does happen--but so much else might not be able to be found again in the same way, and this is what we have to accept. Maybe it's not so wrong to commit, even irrationally, to something that we know makes us sparkle and smile--something simple we can assure ourselves we can always have, in the face of so much that we cannot. 

I See You

Anyone else out there feeling vulnerable?

Coronavirus, and not knowing for sure what's next or right or reasonable in preparing for, preventing, and managing it, is our new shared, global, collective anxiety.  COVID-19 has also become part of the greater preexisting web of things we worry about, while expanding and exposing our already tender underbellies.

Quarantines and social distancing and closed schools and businesses are conspiring to keep us apart for our own good.  And yet, we need one another.  Because underlying This Big Worry are all the other stressors and circumstances, short- and long-term, big and small, which existed before and many of which will still be around after Coronavirus has peaked and then waned.

Maybe it's Daylight Savings.  Lack of sleep?  Elections.  Tragedy.  There's menopause.  Cancer diagnoses and treatments.  College applications, acceptances, and rejections.  Grades.  Finances.  The stock market.  Depression.  Parenting.  Providing.  Trying to make a doctor's appointment.  Your child's behavior.  Being a good __fill in the blank__.  Death in your family.  Fear of death in your family.  Taxes.  The news.  Accidents.  Social media.  Anxiety.  Report cards.  SAT tests and scores.  Being responsible; is this what it means to be responsible?  GPA.  Insurance.  Deferred maintenance.  That pit in your stomach. Your children. The Joneses. Marriage.  Dating.  Your appearance.  Driving.  Climate change.  Being left out or feeling left out or FOMO.  Natural disaster. Your to-do list.  Your job?  Mortgages, or rent.  That thing you said. Also that thing you didn't say.  Your carbon footprint.  Panicking...or not panicking?  Your parents' health. Missing your parents.  Your relationship with alcohol. Someone else's relationship with alcohol.  Your relationships.  Do you need therapy?  Therapy.  Passwords.  Travel.  Real ID. The DMV.  Copays. Aging.  Being dead. Suicide.  Living up.  Being there.  Being there when you can't be.  Nutrition.  Clean water.  Regret.  Wildfires.  Preparedness.  Helping others.  Doing your part.  Maintaining perspective.  Being aware.  Not overreacting. Putting your phone down.  Laundry.  Doing enough.  Organic food.  Charitable contributions.  Forgetting.  Animal rights. Violence.  Retirement.  Healthcare.  Job performance.  Balanced meals.  Landfills.  Recycling.  Faith.  Teenagers.  The cost of oil.  War.  Feeling accepted.  Feeling seen.

Vulnerabilities are normal and natural and every day; they accentuate our humanness and connect us with others.  They're why we innovate and why we experiment and create; they're why we write novels and poetry and plays and songs and make music and paint and sculpt and reach out and act courageously and help and represent others.  Sharing our vulnerabilities and connecting with others' fears and insecurities helps us feel less lonely.

Our vulnerabilities can also spotlight our least desirable tendencies; they're why we manipulate and hoard and judge and fear our neighbors and develop addictions and point fingers and lash out and isolate ourselves.

And we're all vulnerable right now in our new shared reality.  Social media posts would suggest that we are asserting or seeking validation that our own approaches to current circumstances make the most, best sense.  Despite our links to experts' advice and testimonials, most of us don't really know the actual best way forward.  So we muddle through, collectively, along both parallel and intersecting paths.

At the height of his own fearfulness, Scaredy Squirrel, a Master Paranoiac and Overreactor, fell out of his seemingly safe tree sanctuary and serendipitously discovered he could fly.

But it's not a great time for us to venture forth into the Great Unknown.  We are likely to be having to hunker down (or up in our trees) soon with our nut supply and a limited view.

If elbow bumps are the closest safe contact, hugging and helping become rare gifts.

And that's why it's more important than ever to poke our heads out of our trees, acknowledge one another from a safe distance, and share more than our excess toilet paper, as our other struggles appear to recede in significance in the face of this pandemic.

Because Coronavirus isn't our only reality.  It's not our only vulnerability.

I see you, parenting a child with disabilities.  I see you, cutting corners to make ends meet.  I see you, in charge of making the tough calls in times like these.   I see you, unable to visit elderly loved ones.  I see you, worried about a family member's mental health.  I see you, mourning the death of your parent(s).  I see you, minimizing your own stress while maximizing your availability for others.  I see you, wondering if you/he/she will graduate.  I see you, worrying about test results.  I see you, struggling to speak up.  I see you, researching resources to help yourself or someone else.  I see you, wondering if anyone notices.

I see you. 

I see you, trying hard every day.

Acknowledging the journeys of others, unfolding before us even from a distance, might be what keeps us best connected in these unprecedented but also normal times.

I see you, searching for meaning.  Whom can you help be and feel seen?

Inessential Oil

To “jennymoore it” means to attempt to fix or improve something but with shortcuts and missing steps, thereby making matters...worse. 

I have a history:  of trying to pry the security dye capsule off a pair of pants I LEGITIMATELY bought (but was too lazy to take back to the store)...of using Sharpies to cover bleach spots, and then needing another something that erases Sharpie marks...of supergluing stuff that requires spackle or caulk, or, caulking things that require spackle...or using whatever happens to be around to patch holes (homemade papier-mache, for example).  I've even jennymoored my hair.  Have you tried hair dye on your eyebrows--haphazardly? That's JENNYMOOREING IT to the next level.  

So tonight I jennymoored my sinuses.

I fall prey to a sinus infection every year or so.  And nothing makes me fantasize about strange remedies—like shower nozzles and vacuum cleaners focused up my nostrils—than a sinus infection.  My entire face/nose/head region has been driving me bonkers for a few weeks now and I KNOW!  I should see a doctor at this point!  But who has time for that because:  HOLIDAYS.  And anyway, I can totally handle this myself, DUH...which (spoiler alert) is the basis for all epic jennymooreisms.

Enter oregano oil!  A home remedy with only anecdotal evidence of efficacy.  But hey, desperate times.  I bought myself a vial while I was at the grocery store and was so excited to use it that despite nothing but the satisfaction that "oregano oil" and "sinuses" have Google searches in common, and no other preparation than to confirm that the oil in my vial was in fact diluted, I went ahead and hopefully droppered some right into each nostril.  Boldly, during Middle Sis's piano lesson, like someone with nothing to lose.

And then the fire began. An intense burning sensation spread quickly up my nose and into my eyes and throat.  My nose felt suddenly swollen by two sizes.  My heart started pounding.  I sneezed and both my nose and eyes watered profusely, so I wiped my nose on my sleeve and then used the SAME sleeve to dab at my eyes, thereby spreading the offending cousin-of-stinging-nettle oil to EVEN MORE MUCOUS MEMBRANES.  I tried to remain calm and quiet and NOT PANICKY! while marveling at how crazy my face and head were feeling and wondering if I would be scarred or disfigured from this self-inflicted horror.  A strange numbness then took over and my nostrils throbbed along with each beat of my heart. I silently wallowed in regret.  

When the piano lesson ended minutes later and our beloved piano teacher turned to talk to me, I was visibly weeping and ruefully attempted to explain my sinus remedy mishap.  She offered me a lifeline in the form of tissues and we wished her happy holidays. We walked to the car; I, smelling like pizza and hoping I could drive home, muttering recriminations about my impulsive purchase and how I would soon be offering oil up for free on the "buy nothing" Facebook group of which I'm a member.  I recalled that growing up, there was banter about substituting oregano for marijuana or mistaking one herb for the other.  Back in the day, you know.  When the prospect of ODing on oregano was a FUNNY JOKE.    

Meanwhile, the spectrum of sensations wrought by said oil did serve to momentarily distract me from sinus pain.  

So as I write this I predict that if I am cured of my maladies by tomorrow, I will dip into the oregano again, maybe in another year when my sinuses have me banging futilely on my temples and the memories of searing sinus flames have dimmed.  

Otherwise, free oregano oil to the next hapless victim!  Or, expect to be served some richly oregano-infused pasta sauces at my house.  To be eaten, not snorted.

Eulogy: Sandy Ferguson 1947-2019

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My 11^th grade daughter frequently reminds us that she loves every single one of her teachers this year.  It’s  wonderful to know your child is inspired, loved, and motivated by her teachers.  In turn, she has genuine interest in who they are as people and thinkers.  I, like her, felt that extraordinary connection with my teachers at Coronado High School, and the idea that I could be part of the kind of relationships these giants in my life inspired is why I am an educator today. 

Sandy Ferguson, or “Ferg,” or "Fergie," and yes, we once dedicated the song "Fergalicious" to him at a Homecoming dance late in his career, was my teacher in 9^th and 10^th grade history and then for half of my classes in 12^th grade (for history, ASB, and then, well, I signed up to be his TA too).  I spent half of my school days my senior year with this man who was kind of like my dad at school.   I admired his humor, his expressive eyebrows, his handwriting, his VW bus, the tee shirts whose life he stretched past viable structural integrity, and that he ran on the beach. In turn, I felt smart, funny, capable, challenged, talented, understood, and real around and because of him.

Sandy Ferguson met each person he encountered, adult and child, with humanity first—not with authority, not with superiority, despite his intellectual prowess and vast funds of knowledge. Instead, it was as if he set out to demonstrate that taking mutual respect for granted actually made it happen.  He treated us like adults but understood that it was in our adolescent nature to test boundaries. He figured we’d learn from navigating them in the context of safe and trusting relationships with adults. He gave us independence and freedom as both students and leaders of our peers, saying yes more often than no, but challenging us to figure out if we got it right. A master of mischief himself, he tolerated our incessant pranking (we turned his posters upside down, moved classroom furniture to his office or the hallway--capers made possible by his often late arrival to class).  

He was also the teacher who called my parents in spring of senior year when I’d been accepted to college and was blowing off notes and assignments (after giving me fair warning). His manner of intervention was inspiring you to reflect on your own behavior, as if your choices and their consequences were a discussion you needed most to have with yourself. He taught us about geographical features like drumlins and all the rivers of South America, and then pushed us to think critically about history and politics and brought back former students to talk passionately about what they were learning in college.

Because I came back to Coronado to teach, I had the privilege to be not only Sandy’s student, but his colleague, and then his administrator, both supporting and feeling daily gratitude for his devotion to CHS and district athletics and facilities.  You can imagine how poignant it was when, after Sandy retired and Alzheimer's was affecting his acuity, he would stop by CHS from time to time and implore me to put him to work in any capacity.  I need to be here, he’d plead, I need to work with you all. And we made plans for him to come back and help, but it would be weeks or months before he returned.  And perhaps he might have regretted that it seemed too late for him.   And though his illness robbed our brilliant friend of many productive years, what I’d really like to say to Ferg is, you achieved it all in the time you had with us, and you, my mentor, also achieved Ralph Waldo Emerson’s definition of success:  "To laugh often and much; To win the respect of intelligent people and the affection of children; to find the best in others; To leave the world a bit better, whether by a healthy child, a garden patch, or a redeemed social condition; To know even one life has breathed easier because you have lived. This is to have succeeded."

Thank you, Sandy Ferguson. 

List: Little Loves

In honor of Valentine’s Day, I’m thinking of all the people and things I love as well as those which may never receive valentines, but nevertheless warrant my recognition and affection.

Here’s my Little I Love You list:

1.  Mittens and pacifiers and stuffed animals, etc. dropped out of strollers but picked up by someone and hung in a noticeable spot (fencepost, bench) in hopes that the owner will discover and recover that lost and loved item.
2.  Little kids sporting backpacks of disproportionate size to their growing bodies and featuring numerous dangling thingamajigs from zippers, etc.
3.  Plants that grow in seams and cracks of brick walls, freeways, bridges and other seemingly uninhabitable spots.
4. The transportation workers who are installing spikes on our bay bridge to prevent people from dying by suicide.  I hope they feel as important as they are in saving lives.
5. Yarn bombers and Banksy and Shepard Fairey and other folks who spread messages of goodwill or needed change through visual magestry.
6.  The kid in the class who, in moments of teacher exasperation, makes meaningful eye contact to convey, Yeah, I feel you. And every other form of similar kinship that happens subtly out there when two people share an empathic moment, even strangers in a crowd, traffic, subway car, etc.
7. People who feel little disappointments every day—not being picked for the team, not winning the classroom raffle, not getting the top score ever, not being asked or invited to the group thing, but who pick up and dust off and show up everyday cheerfully nonetheless.
8.  Hummingbirds and butterflies.
9.  Hilarious (and harmless) people on the internet.
10.  Elderly people with walkers or canes who walk their dogs daily, even in the rain.

Friends and Stuff

Ornaments of 2001

I began cleaning up Christmas with the plan to sort, weed out, and reorganize our decorations. I hoped to resent the Post-Holiday Fer of 2019 less than I did the 2018 Me when I opened our haphazardly and hastily packed boxes of decorations and ornaments this season.  I imagined myself testing for sparks of joy a la Marie Kondo to determine which tchotchkes to keep and which to discard.  I pictured fewer bins of decor in the garage.  I visualized a minimalist Christmas this December.

I enlisted Middle Sis, Tootsie, and her cousin to de-ornament the tree and my grand plans were quickly abandoned when one by one, the ornaments some of my oldest friends sent to me back in 2001 were plopped in my lap. 

In 2001 my then-fiance/now-husband and I bought our first house.  Amidst counting pennies from our change jar and trying to believe we'd "grow into" our mortgage (as our broker cheerfully reassured us we would), we packed boxes and piled them in the carport for ferrying across the bridge to our new (old) house and neighborhood.  The rental house we were leaving opened onto an alley, as do numerous rentals in the town in which we grew up.  Alleys in Coronado have their own characters, stories, and rules to live by.  Everyone knows that furniture and discards placed along the alley are up for grabs.  And nothing abandoned in an alley lasts long.

But my boxes of Christmas ornaments were stacked temporarily at the top of our carport driveway, nestled against our storage space attached to the house (in lieu of a garage).  Inside those boxes were the ornaments my parents had given me each year of my 30, often with a theme matching a family trip or significant event.  It's safe to say that those ornaments were probably the first, second, or third items I would grab in the event of fire, along with photo albums and some sentimental jewelry.

Needless to spell out, during the short time I and my fiance were away from the house, those boxes were taken.  All my ornaments.  I was crushed.

But because those were the only boxes left there, I figured whoever took them was likely disappointed or at least not interested in the contents and might return or discard them after recognizing their sentimental value.  It was 2001, so I placed an ad in the local paper with a passionate plea for their return, to no avail.  I lamented their loss to everyone I knew.

My parents, it turned out, had some duplicates of our annual ornaments which they gave me.  Family friends and students presented me with new ornaments. 

And then my high school friend group organized to send me ornaments from their current homes across the US.  The dolphin from my friend's annual holiday Hawaii trip is missing its tail, but the significance of not only the ornament, but those annual family trips which don't happen as frequently, sustains.

I learned in 2001 that beloved ornaments, like so many other material things, are just "stuff."  And while seemingly irreplaceable, if those ornaments my buddies sent me 18 years ago were to disappear tomorrow, I'd know that my friends, who remain true and present today, would come through. Instead of new ornaments, their enduring friendship is all I really need.

So sorry, Marie Kondo, this isn't the year for tossing ornaments.  And cheers to lifelong friends, true sparks of joy.