Painting What We See

There is a quiet beauty in being older now—
in sitting back
and watching the season arrive on its own.

One simple strand of lights
is enough to set the stage.
A single candle, scented like Frasier fir,
fills the air with the memory of Christmas trees
and years held close.

On the stove: orange rinds, cloves, and ginger
simmer slowly,
bringing with them the warmth of baking,
of comfort,
of familiar things remembered.

I don’t do everything I once did.
I don’t hang all the lights or put up a tree.
I don’t indulge the way I used to.
Life—and health—have gently asked me to move differently now.

So I adapt.
We drive through glowing neighborhoods.
I accept tins of cookies from friends.
We reminisce.

We let this home carry the aroma of past seasons
with candles and potpourri.
We watch old Christmas movies.
We sit quietly while the world hurries around us,
trying to get everything just right.

And in the stillness, something settles.

I am no longer the one creating the perfect scenes.
I am the one witnessing them—
with gratitude,
with softness,
with love.

Like Norman Rockwell,
I sit back and observe.
I notice the light.
I hold the moment.

I paint what I see.