I am counting the days until the sun turns.
I used that phrase once at work and a colleague informed me that “the sun doesn’t really turn”. So, for the record: I am aware of that.
I’m also aware that when we do hit the solstice, the days will still feel as dark and as long for another two months. The newspapers are encouraging people to put Christmas decorations up early. And I guess most people are cheered by the holidays, but I muddle through them.
Muddle is a fun word. So maybe not entirely appropriate. I do like the image of me sitting in the middle of the living room floor surrounded by ribbons and paper scraps and glue and paints and well-wishes. I get that image about now every year and think: this year I will make the time, find the energy. It has even been a recurring two-week event on my google calendar for the past 8 years or so: make the Christmas cards.
I should probably delete it from the calendar. I keep finding myself here.
There is a melancholy stitched so deeply into the fabric of my life that it may well be the only thing that holds it together. But that can’t be true. I am an optimist. And certainly no seamstress.
I may not believe that the next breath will bring joy, but each step is imperceptibly lighter. I look up now and then, and the horizon has changed, and the view is a bit less daunting.
And there is a satisfaction looking back. I could have done things differently, taken an easier path, seen a now-obvious opportunity. But that kind of thinking is a waste of imagination.
I had several imaginary arguments on this morning’s run. I was so earnest in making my point to my doctor that I ran past the turn-back point and E. had to call out to me.
This is also a waste of imagination. I will never have that clever conversation.
Last week someone asked me what I was writing now, and I cannot answer that question. Touching and retouching that tiny thread of imagination before I’m done will fray it to uselessness. For the record: I don’t knit either.
This year, I’m going to meet things as they come. The holidays included.
Yeah – please don’t expect a handmade Christmas card.
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Life is challenging. Isn’t it?
“we wake up one day, and we miss ourselves.” So maybe I’m forgiven if my writing isn’t all up to snuff. Maybe it has been closer to who I am beneath this borrowed skin, closer than for many many years. I recall childhood visions of a home with a white picket fence and a wife, probably blonde. What, twelve years old perhaps? Hasn’t been an image who hung around long.
Yea, November Christmas decorations are daily settling into place. My partner J. loves the rampant chorus of season symbols. Me, not so much. But it’s growing on me. Sure, it kinda begins with being kind, with appreciation for another persons labor. I let it soak into me. Seems right. Seems allowing kindness to be not shy.
This is where I am going to be. This here. This now. This life.
I don’t write near so much as I think I “should”, be it for the better or worse. Not my call. (Even when I do.) Do the words we say matter, have any purpose past one breath? I don’t know. But then why do I feel more alive, more myself when I do? (You’d think I might learn more better… by now.) Maybe we (me) ask more of ourselves than is right? What the trees say, just what’s asked of them. Why not me?
Does it matter more to me what you think of me than I think of myself? Odd place to look aside. If we say a thousand words will anyone else recall more than a ten fingers handful? Maybe not the words but more welcome the intent (beneath the skin). Not thoughts but heart that makes me care, want more.
Good enough to be Vonnegut’s “happy mud”. Small moments are where I most live.