Simplify. Slow down. Breath.

That seems to be what God is telling me this holiday season. I don’t even remember the last eighteen months, when Mom became gravely ill in a drama that ended with her death a week before Christmas. Dad followed four months later. The True North of my life seemed to slip, my world tilting on its axis.

I’m trying to pace myself, cut myself some slack. If I don’t, who will? Although my family has been flawless and kind, I’m aware that I’m setting an example for them. How to love. How to let go. How to grieve. How to heal. How to exercise self-care. (I don’t think women, particularly Christian women, are very good at that last one. We need to take our forty days in the Wilderness every once in a while.)

I was wrapping presents Saturday, baking for Christmas, trying to finish a project for my literary agent. Scurrying. Stressing just a little. Then movement outside one of the enormous windows caught my eye.

I don’t know how much you know about bobcats, but they’re elusive. VERY elusive. And nocturnal. Catching a glimpse of one is rare. A privilege to those who camp for hours in the snow, suffering frostbite, cameras ready.

I looked through the glass. And I looked again. Sure enough, a large male bobcat was in the meadow. Chasing (and catching) rabbits thirty feet away. When he finished his meal, he cleaned himself like our twenty-two-year-old tabby, then walked within a foot of me. We were separated by six inches of construction.

Animals are our mountain neighbors. They come to the house, unaware of us because they don’t catch our scent. We marvel at them through triple-pane windows, thankful we didn’t cosset ourselves behind wood beams and pseudo-western architecture.

But a bobcat? I heard it during a winter storm two years ago. I saw it run through the meadow that spring. My neighbor saw it on his driveway a month ago. These were glimpses, not gazes. Sightings, which excited everyone on top of this mountain.

I stared at him. He stared at me. And I realized that sometimes all God asks me to do is stare. At His beauty. His general revelation of Himself.

Watching this bobcat for forty-five minutes was a form of meditation. I felt connected to something much grander than myself, putting all of that day’s activities in a timeless perspective.

The tasks were important. But not critical enough to miss that bobcat.

Take time, friends. You might be missing the bobcats in your world. Some experiences can become revelations that are just too remarkable to miss.

Last week I shared the Alpha Turkey, my traditional Thanksgiving blog post about the habits of the turkey posse that rides through these parts every year or two.

This week I snapped the fine dude at the top of the page. He’s easily the biggest buck I’ve seen in six-and-a-half years. He’s also very spooky, which explains how he grew to such a majestic size. I worked hard to get the photo before he literally headed for the hills. He’s been outmaneuvering me for ten days.

Two weeks ago I saw the bobcat. He’s a lot faster than I am, and I almost turned myself inside out trying to get a photo. Then the feline chilled on my neighbor’s driveway, taunting me. Bobcats are pretty rare here, so seeing one is quite the coup among strange people (like me) to whom such things are important. I suspect that he knew he was a star.

It’s that time of year. Busy with everything. Writing, cooking, decorating, wrapping, mailing, shipping. It’s easy to become overwhelmed and totally miss the point of the holidays—thankfulness and holiness. Joy. Peace. Grace.

Don’t even get me started on going to the mall.

Keeping myself focused this year is critical. Mother was (actively) dying this time last year, with less than a month to live. I was the Little Dutch Boy putting his fingers in the dyke, trying to stop the carnage. Then Dad died four months later, and I can’t even remember the holidays. There are seasons like last year, in which we do what we must to be fully human, to live in the image of God, the Imago Dei.

As I take the time to see and stalk and photograph these critters who share my world, I want to encourage you to act like that bobcat and chill a little. Reconnect with your natural world and withdraw a little from your daily one. Take time for yourself. Take a walk. Meditate. Read scripture. Let the rest of the world wait a few minutes.

Thankfulness and holiness. Joy, peace and grace to you. May you live in the Imago Dei.

Life is hard to keep up with right now.

The settling of my parents’ estates is coming to an end (thank God), and I’m spending more time in my valley. Thanksgiving is five weeks away, and Christmas will be here before I know it.

We’ve already had our first snowfall—and our second. I returned from the nearest city, where my daughter is studying law, to see even fewer colorful leaves on the trees, and more piled on the ground. Four young bucks were bedded down in the front; one little buck and four doe were in the back, in snow from last night’s weather.

About an hour ago, I noticed commotion outside the dining room windows. When I investigated, I discovered that the first tussles of the rut were starting. The four young ones were paired off, locking antlers and twisting their heads, taunting each other in a slow, graceful tango about ten feet from the large, glass panes. After a few promenades, they’d literally change partners. I don’t know if they were practicing for the real thing or just seeing who was the toughest, getting a bead on the competition.

I know that this isn’t the serious rut; I saw that last year. Two much larger animals spent twenty minutes rocking up on their hind legs before crashing into each other outside my office. I slipped onto the deck to listen to the clacking antlers and thudding hooves and bodies. I was privileged to witness such an iconic ritual of fall in the High Country.

This seasonal continuity is calming to me. It reminds me that life goes on, that God is in control. I haven’t noticed blaze orange on the mountain about two miles to my north yet, but I know it’s only a matter of time until the hunters appear. Trucks were parked along the interstate yesterday, awaiting men and women returning with meat for winter meals.

And I’m planning our Thanksgiving menu tonight, an activity that always brings me joy. For the feast, I’ll use Mother’s more-than-century-old Johnson Brothers china (given to her by my dad), my grandmother’s sterling, and my crystal. My daughter and I will compose a centerpiece of purchased and foraged plants. Family and friends will share our traditions, unaware of the people whose taste and generosity grace the place settings.

In an ever-changing world, these rituals bring me peace. And enable me to honor my father and mother by remembering them with such love.