and lace ornaments

Old-fashioned pewter decorations

things made of wood

or pottery

A friend made these angels

And, of course, real beeswax candles with the scent of natural honey.When the last flame goes out on Christmas eve, one may think of a secret wish, and it may come true.

After a rainless autumn, we have a warm winter full of a soft silver drizzle that silently and gently spreads a new kind of Christmas magic over the gardens – roses and other flowers still blooming, untouched by frost, enhanced by the muted light of December that sets them sparkling in an almost unreal way. I like it. Nature decorates with unpreposterous grandeur, sparks of hope and thanks hanging from every tiny stem.
Have a blessed and magic Christmas, everybody!

We had to remove an apple tree in our garden. Over the years it had grown much more than expected, and so a very old rose, nearly dead and hardly visible was forgotten in its shadow.
With the tree gone, the rose revived. It started to grow at the beginning of November, and now, a day before December, untouched by frost as yet, has fifteen gorgeous roses on it. A wondrous fragrance rises from them, warm and fragile, deep and beautiful – a scent I am sure only a winter rose can give, in celebration of survival, life, and the discovery of light even in dark and cold days.
My mother always told me when she came home from the war and the train carried her through a destroyed Germany, she saw a magnolia tree blooming undismayedly among the charred remains of crumbled houses. Whenever she got discouraged and lost hope and faith, she thought of that magnolia tree, and it gave her strength. Later, she planted one in our garden.
I think this winter rose will be a magnolia tree in my mind, though not the only one.

A sample from “New Christmas Stories”:
Click here

My love and I sitting in the garden on a balmy October Sunday, he in the amazing new wheelchair that opens up new paths – but at the moment our garden is paradise. Surrounded by trees spun of dancing gold, a carpet of gold and flame around us, the taste of golden apples of our own harvest on our tongues, church bells and birds in the background, the hum of last bees and the glitter of a dragonfly in flight. What more could one want?
Okay, it would be nice if somebody would want to read my books now and then. But it could hardly make me any happier.
I enjoy the scene deeply, almost afraid to breathe in case that makes the moment pass faster. It is so precious, so fragile.

Yesterday the deep blue sky was marked with huge white x-es again and again, as if humankind had crossed it out with certainty and purpose. The trails of planes rushing here and there, moving huge amounts of humans. It strikes me as funny, and slightly sad, all these people rushing about. They get nowhere far, just here and there a little on this tiny planet of ours, which is such a minute thing in our galaxy, which is only a minute thing in the universe. The sun burns on and never notices any movement on the skin of our bubble.
But it is such an amazing bubble I never get to the end of marvelling without moving an inch on it. Far below me, it’s fiery heart turns, far above me, familiar constellations burn in a gand array of silver sparks. Around me, it is a world of red and golden october glory, while the seeds blowing around me already write the stories that will grow with spring. My love’s hand is warm in mine. We breathe. We live. Why would I want to be anywhere else than right here, right now? I can think of no answer. My adventure is here.
And the crosses in the sky evaporate, already forgotten by the atmosphere, and all is clear.

While summer here was of a cold grey, drenched in rain and playing with grumbling storms, September has a different face. It has been soft golden glory throughout. I love the wistfulness of September, the knowledge that the days are precious and as fragile and beautifully spun as the silver webs between the dying sunflowers.

My husband’s muscle dystrophy has taught us how precious a day, an hour is. That nothing can be taken for granted: walking, eating, or even breathing. He has been in the wheelchair since before I knew him, and on the respirator for sixteen years. Yet he still works full time, seeing no reason not to. Even though or because his strength is always slipping just a little, we enjoy every single of these glowing days deeply. Often I feel we are luckier than many of those around us who are not aware of what they have, what richness a sunset is, the taste of a wild strawberry, the touch of a hand or a picnic at the lake. That amazing music always running through the moment – we dance to it in our own way, thankful for the stunning miracles surrounding us.