Merry Christmas

Somehow my parent's managed to entertain and feed around thirty people of multiple branches of our family for Christmas. They certainly have more energy than they claim. In any case, welcome to Dancing Oaks.

Solstice.

Our resident Cherokee compatriot ironically emailed our whole class...except me...for his annual gathering (this slip, I'm sure, is largely because I send most of the social emails to our class and don't include myself on the list. Right?).

In any case, my local Bengali go-to is out of commission given the watchful eye of her baba, so I trek it alone. Cherokee always has a tendency to surprise with a seemingly anachronistic calm demeanor. He holds court in his rapidly gentrifying neighborhood (read still 'hood but with character). I park behind another of Germany's finest, in a gaudy yellow. My fingertips and palms tickle the rosemary bush as I clank up the wood plank steps. Its decidedly quiet on the porch as I reach for the door knob.

Tap, tap.
Enter.

As a quick aside. I love Houston (and not in the narcissistic self-referencing sense). Its just so random. If non-blue, oddly shaped post-cards could be made of soirées, I'd have to send this one out to DXB. I'm greeted by an older married Black couple who smile and ask my name before I even have a chance to take my scarf off. I reply softly and smile as my eyes gauge this odd tableau vivant:

Young, engaged, yuppyish couple painfully resisting yuppydom.
Multiple short-coiffed former/current hippies.
A heap of Native American
A pinch of East Indian
A hint of Asian

And a hint of Asianese.

This is all set in a woody, creaky 1920s bungalow that is Cherokee's and his roommate's dwelling. Teal walls embraced the light and delightful smell of tannin-y wine. Yum. I glide past the couple and those already in intimate conversations, passed a table of cranberry chipotle cheddar, brie, and gouda to head toward the kitchen. The crystals in the window sparkle.

"Oooh hello! Great to see you!"

Deb's hands open wide as she sweetly moves for a hug. Deb is one of those people you meet once and are bewitched by. You wonder how did America manage to produce someone who has remained so innocent and warm. Her long gray hair catches the light and wind from the back door as she points.
"He's out there by the fire" she says referring to Cherokee.

As promised in the invite, Cherokee has the firepit going and this may be one of the only nights this 'winter' where it may be more utilitarian than simply visually appealing. Cherokee shares some wine and asks if I've grabbed a Tarot card and paper.

"Deb's really into that stuff." Deb fluently joins with eyes wide, "It'll predict 2009 for you."
"Also, be sure to take a blue paper, write what it is you'd like to let go of this year, and throw it in the fire."

Clever. Done.

I warm my hands and we exchange light chat, and swiftly I return inside to pick up a Tarot card and paper. Before I do, I go to sign the evening's guestbook, but have trouble deciding whether to leave a superficial yet quick holiday message or a substantive yet time-intensive holiday message. I decide to leave my signature. On to the paper betrothed to the fire.

Humility forbids me from revealing what I wrote, but I'll let you imagine.

"_______ __ __ __________."

As for the Tarot card, I'll be less bashful:

"Hey Debra, is the Magus one good?"
She pauses as her gaze remains fixed down before responding. Enter wave of panic. She finally meets my eyes and intimates, "That's very good. That's the best one of all the cards."

If it were bad, of course, it was my plan to remain in ignorance about the details of the card, but her exuberance piqued my interest. So I picked up the well-worn Tarot book to get the quick and dirty.

None to shabby, but kinda freaked out.

Note to self. Only use powers for good.

So, Cherokee and I are joined by Rockstar and Hans outside by the fire. We discuss our shared fascination with fire and compliment Cherokee on his wood stacking skills. We're interrupted gracefully by a woman who discusses mental health, and the utility or beauty of taking pictures of fire. Our other quasi-German, Iranian fellow psychiatry resident joins much to our delight (he's on call, but is apparently more efficient with his time than we originally estimate).

Debra laments the lack of use of the smores she's provided and Cherokee beautifully redirects with an aplomb that suggests plenty of experience of doing just that. Cherokee and I chop some more cheese and apples (by we I of course mean Cherokee) and I swirl about for a bit.

My next exciting and rather unexpected meeting is with this one woman that I can only describe as...uncanny. Her hair was cut in a fashion that suggested a mushroom and it framed a raceless, blank face with ironically intense eyes.

"Hello, you work with [Cherokee]?"

"Oh..yeah. My name is Cecil."

She stares.

Further, she continues to shake my hand for what was undeniably an uncomfortable period of time.

Enter wave of mild anxiety that by now had become quite familiar this evening.

"That was my father's name...that's a very unusual name."

I pray that my concern does not show on my face and am reminded of my times being tested by more adventurous patients.

With half a smile, "Yeah, its also my father's name."

I half listen, to her pleasant yet gauche response, as she continues to hold my hand.

Odd.

"Oh, hey [Cherokee]." I turn back to this odd one, "I'm going to help our friend here bring out some more wine. It was a pleasure meeting you."

I give the Cherokee a very knowing stare, and my thoughts are communicated clearly. In the kitchen Cherokee confirms my initial impression and we share a small laugh.

More fire, a half-glass of wine, some more delicious cranberry chipotle cheese and the evening winds down.