4:44 a.m.

I don't know why I woke up or why the thoughts in my head won't slow down but here I am. It is dark and very cold outside; very cold by Houston, Texas standards that is.

I do love being awake before the rest of the world. It is quiet and I am all alone in my consciousness. The rest of my day will be spent with people - helping, talking, teaching, listening, and just simply being a friendly face in a world filled with chaos. This is the best part of the day.

I always tell people I am a morning person - but I don't think I really am, not in the usual sense. I don't hop out of bed disgustingly cheerful, ready to tackle the day head on. I don't understand those folks and am so thankful I am not married to one. Waking early is lovely; however, conversation early is torturous and makes me quite grumpy. Between the noise in my head, the talking I do at work, and the near constant droning from a tv or radio, I treasure the few moments of silence found in the predawn hours of the morning.

Light. I detest bright lights in the early morning. I love a dark room; slowly allowing light to filter into my new day - being in control of the light is important. Christmas is the best time of year for my special mornings. There is something magical about a room illuminated by hundreds of tiny, white lights. The glow is soft and friendly, warm and comfortable. It reminds me of my childhood when life was simple. Every morning when I could hardly wait to see if there was a new gift under the tree for me. Mom wrapped gifts at night, and every few days a new colorful, paper covered bundle of possibility showed up under the tree. We were strictly forbidden to touch, pick up, or heaven forbid, shake the packages. So, while mom was around my brother and I just looked.

Where does the anticipation and pure joy go when we grow up? As I think about it, I'm not sure anything is lost. Rather, I think it is a natural transition from being a self focused child to a giving adult. Now, I drink in the flood of excitement as my granddaughters run to look under the tree each time they come visit. My joy now comes as the giver of gifts.

I soak up the glow of the the early morning Christmas lights; the only sounds in the room are the clicking of keys on the computer and the rhythmic breathing of my dog and cat. I know that the real world is waiting just outside my door - the magic is temporary, but the peace will carry me through the day.

Snow Holiday

When it snows in south Texas it is almost the equivalent of you know what freezing over. Well, it froze over today!

I was sitting in my studio early this morning, slowly sipping my first cup of coffee while checking out my Facebook and Twitter pals. It was raining. No, wait...are those snow flakes? At first I thought I was seeing things because this wasn't supposed to happen until later in the day, if at all. Sure enough, on closer inspection, real honest to goodness snow flakes were falling. Yippee!

What a great day to own a yarn shop. Customers came bundled in their knitwear looking for a project to work on while watching the snow. Everyone was happy. I know that for you folks who live where it snows regularly, we seem rather pathetic. I am telling you that this is big news in the Houston area! Jim frickin Cantorre from the weather channel was here. You know it is big weather news when he shows up.

By late morning the sky was white with snow flurries and the snow had begun to stick and accumulate. All I wanted to do was sit and stare at the miracle falling from the skies. It is so gentle and peaceful. We are used to weather making really loud noises; thunder that rattles the windows and driving rain that sounds like BBs as it comes crashing down. Snow is silent. The tranquility is mesmerizing and intoxicating.

I think that part of the reason I feel the way that I do is because this is such a rare occurrence thus it must be treasured as it will be gone in the blink of an eye. And sure enough, by 5:00 p.m. the sun was starting to peek through the clouds and the white was beginning to fade to green and brown again.

This is the earliest it has ever snowed in Houston. In a world where we are bombarded with bad news on a daily basis, a snow day is cause for celebration and should most definitely be a holiday. Today was special - an early Christmas gift from God.

Thank you God,

Sheryl

Generations

I have become obsessed with finding my Irish ancestors. As long as I can remember my mom passed on to me what her mom had told her - her grandfather Fryer had come to the United States from Ireland. This information became a badge of honor and the cornerstone for a passion for all things Irish. I looked at pictures of my grandmother and saw a definite Irish face looking back at me. My mom is a red head - she must be Irish, right?

In anticipation of the long awaited trip I joined ancestry.com and began researching. The trouble with family stories is that they don't always mesh with reality. I have gone back to the 1700's and have not found that Irish grandfather. I am now trying my grandmother's maternal side of the family but have hit a roadblock that I can't seem to get past - and, alas no Irish folks.

This is the problem with being a mutt - I have no clear cut ethnic identity. Now, don't get me wrong, I don't think less of myself because I am a mixture of so many ethnicities. The variety is what makes me special. I just feel as though I have lost a special part of me.

I have cut myself off from the ancestry search. There are no little boxes with names extending from me. There will never be another person who carries my DNA; no one will look like me, act like me, or carry what is good and special about me to another generation.

In the midst of this sorrow is the blessing of grandchildren. Well, step grandchildren to be specific, but they don't know any different. My stepdaughter's mother died when she was 16 propelling me into a parenting role at the most difficult time of a girl's life. When she had her first child she lived at home, unmarried and scared. I was in the delivery room, cut the cord and was the first person other than her to hold the baby. To this day this child and I are as close as any mother and child could be. She doesn't consider me a grandmother; I am Mimi, one of her parents. She is and always will be the child I never had.

Shorts, as we call her, will take the best parts of me to the next generation. It may not be physical, but that's ok. The physical dies and returns to dust. The soul lives on forever and I am sharing that with her, her sister and everyone else who crosses my path.

I now view my ancestral searches as a fun fact finding mission and enjoy whatever I discover (such as I am descended from the Valtrin family in Alsace-Lorraine France). What matters more than the DNA of people I never knew are the relationships I have today.