Holiday

I realize it's been a long time since I updated this. Frankly, I think my life has been so dull that I haven't had much to say. Or rather, perhaps what I would say would be tedious. The holidays are upon us, and I am ... not ambivalent... I can't find the word I need.

I love Christmas. It was always such a happy time for me as a kid that I bring that joy forward, I can't help it. I'm so glad that I have also managed to pass that joy of the season along to Grayson. So it's a good time, no matter what. We decorated the tree and listen to Christmas music and every morning, Grayson opens another drawer in the advent calendar cabinet we bring out every year and I fill with little treats and surprises. Every day Grayson tells me he can't wait till Christmas. And I agree. We'll be spending Christmas Eve at my folks' again this year, so it will feel like home.

But this also was the first year I got out all the holiday decorations from storage to do up the house. Last year I just brought out the Christmas tree decorations. But this year I rummaged through seven or eight large storage bins of decorations from ten years of married life. There was G's stocking, with his name in needlepoint that my Mom made for him. There were decorations from G's childhood that his mom sent over to us. There were the garlands and ornaments I brought out every year for specific purposes: one that always went down the stair rail at the old house. One that graced the mantle. The wicker star I made for the top of the tree. Christmas is about family to me, and these were just reminders of a family tradition that was broken.

They're just things, I know. Just objects. And I picked through and repurposed some of them for the new space: The staircase garland over the armoire, the mantle garland across the sideboard. G's things I just nudged aside. I told him I would put them all together and turn them over to him tomorrow night so he can decorate his place.

And I'm not sad looking at these decorations. But getting them out was a little painful, I'll admit.

I called my mom one night last week, crying pitifully. I hate to burden her with my pitifulness. But there's no one else to talk to who doesn't have a personal interest or an axe to grind on the subject in one way or another. Or maybe there's just no one else I think really cares. It's been a year, or nearly so, since the divorce was final. Everyone pretty much expects you to be over it.

Anyway, she was, as always, wise and kind. She reminded me that last year I had the healing power of rage to get me through the holidays. This year that momentum is gone. I'm in a much better place.... no longer crazy, or mostly not crazy ... At least mostly not crazy. I'll settle for that. Anyway. The mental space is healthier and more stable. But that removes a layer of protection from my heart. So things get in.

I went to a meeting of the Arts Council Roundtable on Monday. It was a meeting/holiday reception at the home of one of the members, and she had brought in a couple of founders of the Singer/Songwriters association to perform for us. One of them sang a piece about love and loss that brought tears to my eyes. I felt like a damned fool, sitting there in this cozy company, crying over a song. But that's where I am now. I'm in the final crying-over-a-song phase of grieving, I guess. Is that after Anger but before acceptance? I forget.

Ani DiFranco has a song that says "I found religion in the greeting card aisle, and now I know Hallmark was right."

I was bemoaning my state at work and my assistant said "you need to go talk to someone." I had to laugh. Yes. I definitely need to talk to someone. Or rather, I need to pay someone to listen to me talk. But I can't afford that right now. Not at Christmas. Ironic, isn't it? That during the season when you most need support, you can't afford to pay for it?

So, instead, I bought a bunch of self help books. As a reader, I am naturally convinced that there must be a book out there, the reading of which will solve all my problems. It won't require any additional effort... simply by consuming the words I will be miraculously healed. I have a sort of faith, there. I bought "The Ultimate Happiness Prescription" by Deepok Chopra, and "When Everything Changes, Change Everything" by someone whose name I can't remember. I'll let you know how those work out for me.

This singer/songwriter at the reception also said something that struck me. He said he writes a poem every day, and has for ten years. He said, consequently, he has a LOT of really bad poetry. But I liked the idea of disciplining yourself to write something every day. Poetry or SOMETHING. I'm not sure if Scrawlspace counts. So I wrote a poem. A sort of prose poem. And I'll try to write something every day. It's cheaper than therapy. And if the books don't work, hey, maybe this will.

Things are not all doom and gloom. It is, after all, the holidays. Tonight I go with my Leadership Norman class to dinner and the Norman holiday Art Walk. Good people and a fun evening. I'm looking forward to it. I recently learned that I got my first choice for Leadership Norman's board internship, so I will be serving on the board of Dreamer Concepts Studio, run by an LN classmate. It will be good to be involved with the arts again, and Amber is so bright and determined and visionary, I look forward to learning more about her organization and putting my back into something that isn't about me. Last Sunday I went over and spent a couple of hours helping to repaint the studio. I still have Amazon Jungle green under my nails.

My Christmas shopping is almost complete. I have a couple of projects that I need to wrap up. Okay, one of them I need to START. I'm almost finished with B's mosaic. I need to put the final touches on Charlie's table and get it shipped out to him.

Running out of time this morning. Got to get moving.

So here's my bad poem from yesterday. Have a nice day.

Five thirty a.m. in the dark

with the wind whistling around the house like icy veils

I am awake and remembering, wishing I weren’t, snowed-in nights with you

When love was new and the future long and wonderful.

Hot coffee at six

with piles of books unread and promises broken,

kept warm by the unassailable loyalty of dogs against the chill of solitude.

Tears smudge the ink of the hundredth, hundred and first, hundred and second times I have written that I do not love you. Not now. Not anymore.

At six thirty the sun cracks open the winter sky

and invades the little hollow of loneliness I have inhabited, pooled in yellow lamp-light and bound by blankets. The dogs stretch and yawn, pawing the door for

access to the cold cold world. The coffee is bitter and the alarm sounds relentlessly from the empty bedside.

At seven I am making breakfast,

rousing our son from sleep and jollying him into another day. Filling all the roles we once filled together, feeding the hungry stomachs, rolling the trash to the frosted curb, my eyelids a little puffy.

By eight my face is tidied, my heart boxed up neatly. His hair smoothed, his lunch packed, his cheek kissed, bundled in coat and sweater, I deliver the life we created together to school alone in a comforting rhythm of rush and hurry.

I go on then, focusing my attention forward and forward, not looking back. Because there is no back, there is only through. Forward and forward. To a future that is now uncertain, veiled in the cold unknown. Waiting for the dawn.