IT'S NOT A HOLLY, JOLLY CHRISTMAS THIS YEAR

I’m not a Scrooge, or the Grinch, well, maybe I am. It isn’t that I don’t like the holidays, well, maybe it is. 

            

I used to love Thanksgiving. Food. The signaling of only a few remaining weeks to survive before Christmas break, always needed to refuel before leaping into the new year and the long stretch through winter until spring.

            

Decorating for Christmas used to be my jam. Craft shows loved to see me coming, leaving with bags stuffed with new purchases, painted Santa and reindeer sets, ornaments, gifts for myself and for others.

            

But things are different since…well, since. I never know what to expect, what my heart will want in order to survive. Survive. It seems like a season of survival now.

            

Last year I met Christmas in overdrive. Hallmark movies playing almost 24/7. Fat tree. Lights upon the mantel. Baking until my freezer was full and my countertops were covered with frosted, sugar sprinkled delights.

            

This year, though I shopped throughout the year, have been stashing gifts for months, I am meeting the holidays nearly in reverse. One small potted pine sits inside the bed of the ceramic pickup truck on the living room table, a gift from a Thanksgiving dinner visitor. No desire to open holiday goods stored in the front closet. No energy even to pull the plastic coverings off of the one step snowmen/pine tree/already lighted displays. No stockings will hang from the mantel with care. 

            

Next year, who knows. I certainly don’t. Maybe a cruise, or a sunny European retreat. I leave the door open, take it one holiday at a time, giving my heart permission to do what feels right, just like the rest of the days. It isn’t sad. It just is, and that’s how it works for me, at least for now. 




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