It's comin' on Christmas, they're cuttin' down trees...
You know how it is. We can't get that Christmas music on fast enough. It's not traditional in the Burl Ives/Rankin Bass Holly Jolly way, but nevertheless, Joni Mitchell managed to create one of the most beautiful things my ears have ever heard when she recorded this song.
It suits things this year, this season of trying to figure it all out.
It's introspective, and there has been no shortage of introspection around these parts. It's melancholy, and there's been little shortage of that at times, too. In truth, and this is a truth of which Dad is surely proud, I've become adept at remembering that the holidays are magical for children. Turkis Maximus is four now, and his four-year-old eyes see the world so differently than mine do. What he knows is that we are lighting the candles, and spinning the dreidel (with Daddy scooping up ALL the gelt and yelling "GIIIIIMMMMMELLLLLLL!!!!!!!", resulting in roars of laughter from a doubled-over boy), and that our tree has lights and some of the ornaments are his (and some are REALLY old because they're Mommy's, ouch). There are cookies to be baked. Holiday movies to watch. Talk of Santa, and reindeer, and indignant questions regarding the utter lack of snow. This certainly would be a less-than-ideal time to fall apart, so I shall not. And at the risk of sounding magnanimous, I daily applaud myself in the closet. Which feels infinitely preferable to sitting on the closet floor in the dark, weeping. Just sayin'.
I wish I had a river so long, I'd teach my feet to fly...
Occasionally I get big ideas about running. The universe is making it clear to me that this isn't the time for such grandiosity, so there are many mornings my feet are flying through my neighborhood as the sun rises and there it stays. I can't shake the thought that I need to focus on simpler pleasures than training right now - and by that I mean the nagging voice in my head that says there's a reason my immune system has been in the crapper and that if I get uppity about this, not only will I be sick, but I will also be injured. Apparently mistakes have been learned from - also a truth Dad's probably thrilled to see me accept. Regardless, it's beautiful to run when it's not quite dawn and there are still Christmas lights on and the phone that holds the music is solidly at home on the charger. Peaceful. With a kind of magic, yes.
I'm so hard to handle, I'm selfish and I'm sad...
Meh. I'm emerging from perma-cranky, despite this ridiculous bullshit weather that isn't making It Feel A Lot Like Christmas But Really More Like Memorial Day Weekend All The Time, Baby It's Hot Outside...it's even warm in my winter respite of Pennsylvania. Armageddon. More Face Time, less Facebook. More reminding the people who like me that they originally did have a reason and dammit, let me show you that reason because I have missed you. Going home for Thanksgiving came with some gentle, nearly imperceptible reminders of what's truly important in my life. I realized that for me, Dad's not at the cemetery, in his grave. He left a part of himself with me, and it is with me always. Some days he makes his presence more visible and obvious than others, but he's always here, where he is so needed. I think the rawness, the openness of the wound, is starting to heal. Never completely, but where I can leave it open to the sun and the early morning run and the sparkly lights now without feeling like I haven't any skin.
It's gonna be allright. Not quite sure what allright is just yet, but it's gonna be allright. Until then, I have a great pair of running shoes and the sun continues to come up and start everything over again.