Throughout the years, many of you received one of these wee metal pocket angels from my ma, Yvonne. Today, while sifting through memorabilia as part of my ongoing decluttering process, I found the angel Ma sent to me during a particularly difficult time in my life. These sweet whispers from the universe never fail to arrive in perfect timing. She left so many wise, sweet notes to remember her by. ​

In these holy days I am flooded with memories of my mother, Yvonne; her hands, in particular. Hands that made hundreds of cookies, kneaded endless loaves of dough for bread and the sweet, cinnamon-y Swedish wreaths she made and Ole delivered every Christmas season of her married life. Hands that gently affixed a delicate manger scene and North Star to a mirror above the dining room table, careful not to tear the fragile foil shapes she had crafted in the long ago days when that's all they could afford. Hands that hung the stockings and ceremoniously unpacked each handmade ornament while sharing a story of when it was made and by whom. Hands that cooked the Christmas Eve casserole and the Christmas Day feast, with always enough leftover so she could pack some for everyone to take home. Hands that eagerly opened the mailbox each day, savoring every card before placing it in the basket she would excitedly pass so everyone could read the news of dearly beloveds near and far.  Hands that carefully chose the yearly Olsson family Christmas card, always a depiction of the Three Kings who, according to the Bible story, didn't arrive in Bethlehem until January 6th (Epiphany); thus, giving Ma a few extra days to complete her Christmas cards. 

Hands that were once very young and not yet ready to care for a baby, but wise enough to find that sweet baby girl a mama who could. 

Being the organizer that she was, Yvonne almost certainly played a part in bringing me together with the sister I never knew I had. And Imagine my surprise and delight when I noticed she has our mother's hands.  Grateful. 

Ritual never fails to pull me out of the doldrums. Happy Solstice Eve, dear people. Merry Yule! May the light within us help to illuminate these dark days, bring us hope, and inspire us to walk ever in right action and Love.

​My lifelong fascination with the divine feminine began as a child while attending a Catholic church service with my mom. I was utterly mesmerized by the beautiful images of Mary throughout the church.  I asked Ma why we only saw images of Mary at our (Lutheran) church on Easter and Christmas. She looked down at me and said (with a wink), "because she was only the Mother." 

Today is the Feast Day for our Lady of Guadalupe, Mother of the Americas, who is said to have appeared to Juan Diego as an apparition on the same ground where the Aztecs worshipped the great goddess, Mother of Earth, Tonantzin. If we peel back the religious narrative, these goddesses (and many others across cultures and history) embody the divine feminine as the healers and warriors who birth ideas, radiate guiding wisdom, and bring hope to those in despair.  

I adore this brilliant depiction of Our Lady by my dearest friend, Rosa Vela Sachs.

I recently hired Henry, a wonderful guy from my neighborhood, to help me with some pruning, and he asked if I would like him to hang holiday lights on the house. I felt emotional when he asked the question, which told me it was something I should do as a gift to my childhood self. I knew it was the right decision as I approached my house this afternoon on my way home from school and felt my eyes well up with tears again. I realize this is the first time I've had holiday lights on my own house as an adult, a little thing that has me remembering my dad's yearly Christmas light hanging ritual with such fondness and wondering why it took this long to realize it matters to me. Next up: I think I might just dig out Ma's old cookie press and take a crack at making her holiday Spritz. Missing my people something fierce, but in the best kind of way.​

​Last year, out of the blue, my beloved teacher and high school choir director, Glenn Patton, called to talk with me after I mentioned (on social media) his significance in my life. He was 94, and looking back with gratitude on a life well lived. 

We talked for almost an hour that day, me sitting at my desk on campus and he in his retirement home, educator to educator. He wondered, what was it like working with kids during the pandemic? Probably, he did not know the impact of that conversation on me. Probably, he was  just carrying out his life's work as he had always done. Probably, he was just being the teacher he had always been. 

Then, last week I dreamt about choir and awakened with memories swirling of our tour in Canada. I have a sweet little carved bird made of soapstone -- which sat on the mantle in my folk's house for decades and now sits on mine -- a gift from my host family on that trip. So I sent an email, asking to connect for another conversation about teaching and music and life. 

I hadn't received a reply, which I thought curious, and today I read that my beloved teacher had died. He was the one who inspired me to become a teacher and modeled how to do it. It feels like a big loss to me and the whole world. A Mr Holland sort of loss. A Mr Patton sort of loss. 

The formative experiences of connection and community which the great teacher, Glenn Patton, so generously bestowed upon his students, have informed my teaching, my relationships and my life. I wish I had told him that when he was still in a body. I had intended to, though, I suspect he knew.

As he taught us to sing the Irish Blessing: May the road rise up to meet you, Mr. Patton, and May the wind be always at your back. May God hold you ever in the palm of his hand. And give you peace.