Jonah was a tradition super fan. Not only did he love all the long-established traditions in our family, but he loved declaring something a new tradition. In recent years, our new traditions began to include a Christmas movie each night in December, Christmas music from the day after Thanksgiving on, binging the Great British Baking Show together, and subsequent Christmas baking projects with mom (cookies, treats, even a yule log - he had already been talking about doing that one again this year). We had traditions around the Christmas tree selection, the night we decorated the tree, when and how we decorated the house, what movies we watched and when, what music we listened to and when. He kept them. He insisted upon them. He loved them. His joy was a wave that swept through us all, carrying us through this season in such a state of gratitude and laughter and love. And Christmas morning was the zenith of our family expression of Christmas tradition. Just the four of us, matching jamm
I don’t know what I expected it to be. Maybe I did. Maybe I thought everything about this season would feel nauseating. Maybe I thought I would feel angry and robbed to sense others' anticipation and happiness as they celebrated with family. Maybe I thought I wouldn’t be able to stop weeping. Maybe I thought all those things could be true, but it was not like that. But it wasn't easy either. I have cried deeply, honestly, everyday. I delayed decorations and avoided celebrations as long as I could. I stayed in bed for two days last week when everything felt too heavy and hard to do. We didn’t get our tree until the 22nd. No gifts until the 23rd. Didn’t wrap a thing until the 24th. Instead of a long, dreadful walk through garish, manufactured, sugarplum happiness, Christmas came almost like a shot at the doctor’s office you didn’t see coming. It’s here. You're doing it. It’s done before you can even get yourself too worked up. So no matter what I thought it might be, th
I have been feeling lighter lately. Maybe since last week? We have been granted an odd reprieve from winter this year and it is hard not to feel a certain lifting in one’s soul in such graceful weather, so I have considered the placebo effect. But no. While this unseasonably warm winter is certainly helping, the lightening is not situational as far as I can tell. It feels positional. Like I am turning (or being turned), degree by degree, to gradually face a different direction. I don’t think I am on the move yet, but instead of filling my pockets full of precious, broken things, I am feeling a persistent, gentle presence, coaxing me to pause and lift my eyes and look around. A wisp of a finger on my chin. Look, there is a way you could go. Shh, shh, shh. No hurry. No rush. But see? See the soft road, ambling onward, dappled and kind? Maybe. It feels tempting to accept the sun. Consume it. Let it bake my bones white. To eat the red fruit and let juice run down my chin. Feel the br
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