Last summer, I tried meditating – the premier activity, it seems, for staying in the present rather than worrying about the future or ruminating about the past.  But no sooner was I sitting still than  I fell asleep or remembered that I was almost out of regular coffee and dashed off to buy some right away.

Apparently, I fell victim to “monkey mind,” the Buddhist term for a “restless” or “unsettled” state.  And the monkey had not only crawled into the car that was my mind. He had reached over and grabbed the wheel. 

I am happy to announce that have found a way around monkey mind and into mindfulness.  It is “closet mind,” or the complete focus on cleaning out one’s closet.  When I am clearing the unwanted and unloved into garbage bags, I do not fall asleep or think about the coffee supply.   The past is cleared out and so – for that particular garment – is the future.

Jon Kabat-Zinn would be proud.  And possibly Goodwill.

In honor of my late mom, who might very well have worn it today, I’m proud to announce that her favorite navy jacket is undergoing renovations.

Handmade with her usual precision and sporting giant pearl buttons, it’s been hanging in the back of my closet since her death more than two years ago.

“Get on with it,” I’ve heard her say. “Someone could put that to good use.” Or, consistent with our family history of button-snatching: “At least take off the buttons and use them on something else.”

Mom finally got her way Mothers Day weekend, when – inches from a Goodwill bag in the making – I tried on the jacket one more time before the toss. It fit perfectly. And as I’m sure I heard her point out, “It just needs a different neckline and it will look lovely on you, dear.”

Fortunately the alterations lady at a place called Cottage of Tailoring not only agreed. She inspected the inside seams and nodded with approval.

“Very nicely sewn, she said.

“It certainly is” came a whisper from behind me, even though no one else was in the shop.

Happy Mothers Day, Mom.

The black sweater was on the “reduced” rack at Nordstrom. Even so, I was sure the sales clerk would be grateful for my vigilance.

“There’s a hole in the front,” I whispered, holding the soft knit creature a few inches from her face. I figured she’d apologize, thank me for my trouble, and put it in some bin under the counter. Not so.

“It’s supposed to be that way,” she said, flipping it around to show two more holes with runs down the side, and hanging it back on the rack.

I’m well aware that faded, creased and occasionally knee-out jeans sometimes sell as new. But somehow a woman’s sweater with holes takes shabby chic to a whole new level. If the style is holey, then it seems the holier thing to do would be to buy these garments from the authentic poor who are actually wearing them and give them at least the price the designers – in this case, Elizabeth and James – are actually commanding. Here, the donation would be at least $154, after two reductions from a list price of $395.

The buyer would then have a real piece of shabby clothing. And the seller might get a much-needed week’s worth of groceries.

Christmas seems like the right time to have an epiphany, so I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that I’m having one.

It finally occurred to me that all of the things I spend time planning for over the holidays – the dinner, the decorating – are not what actually bring me joy.

Instead, it’s the small moments and surprises that happen, shopping list in hand, on the way to someplace else. It’s that moment getting lost in a neighborhood, springing suddenly onto an amazing light display, the last-minute decision to duck into a tavern for turtle soup, an unexpected homemade treat from a friend.

So when the wrapping paper and dried needles are swept off the floor, there’s no need for a letdown. Brilliantly and at will, the other Christmas moments can be recalled and extend the season, even in the dull gray days of January, February and beyond.