My sleep was disturbed and restless and the night seemed to pass slowly. My dreams were unsettling, but not actually nightmares. I went to bed in pain after an unproductive day struggling to manage pain and still get some housework done. The Giftmas holiday is almost here and I’d like the living room to be quite presentable in photographs. Seems reasonable – my pain and energy level may have the last word, in spite of my intentions.
I woke still in pain. (Fuck pain.) I started my day in a routine way. It’s the last work shift for me before the holiday. We settled on fried rice for Giftmas eve dinner; I remind myself to make rice after work today so I have that ready to use for tomorrow evening. After some discussion, we decided a simple breakfast of scrambled eggs, link sausages, and toast would be lovely for Giftmas morning. We all know we’re likely to over-indulge in rich treats and favorite sweets, and a hearty protein-rich breakfast will be a nice balance. My Traveling Partner spoke up in the evening, yesterday, and asked for roast beef for Giftmas dinner. Looks like I need to make a trip to the store for a roast, and some potatoes (for mashing), and a vegetable… and maybe some nice dinner rolls? (I could bake, but fucking hell, I’m just one woman.) It all sounds lovely.
I sit quietly for a moment, just thinking it over. Not planning, or “walking myself through it” in any sort of tactical way, just imagining the moments, the flavors, and the warm sentiment. Family at home for the holidays. Wholesome. There won’t be any shootings or violence at our house over the holidays; that’s not who we are. Hell, there may not be any harsh words or impatience, though we’re human and there certainly could be. There will be love and joy and humor and gratitude and fun. There will be celebration and looking ahead to another year. There will be tasty meals and delightful treats, and gifts to enjoy once opened.
… Here’s an important question; in a household of adults only, is it coffee and breakfast first, or gifts first? I chuckle to myself. I’m like a child over Giftmas and often forget we can easily wait, easily take time with all of it. We can even sleep in, if we can sleep. There’s no rush…
A wonderful Giftmas time
I breathe, exhale, and relax. I’m excited for the holiday, but recognize how easily excitement can become anxiety or irritability. I remind myself to put love first, to listen deeply, to be mindful of social cues and patient with those around me. We’re enjoying this together, but we’re each having our own experience. I sit with my feelings of contentment and quiet excitement. For now, that’s enough.
I have been taking a look back at Giftmas holidays past… Thinking and remembering, and considering the gaps in my recollections, that – in spite of being “gaps” – are part of what makes this holiday so “magical” and wonderful for me.
My childhood memories, though few, are visceral, powerful memories triggered by scents, by colors, by the twinkle of lights in the periphery of my vision on a winter day. They tend to be what continues to provoke me to “chase the dream” and try to hard, year after year, to recapture that magic. (Sometimes this has led me to stray from my path.) I don’t remember early Christmases, aside from a few lingering recollections of a particular gift item – a bicycle with a purple “banana seat”, a Barbie van, a kitchen playset, roller skates… they aren’t attached to years or context, I just remember those things as existing, connected to Christmases past.
The Ghosts of Christmas Magic.
My most intensely magical recollection of Christmas was a particular year… 1972? 1973? The tree stood in a bucket on the front porch, all the way to Christmas Eve. More than once that year my Dad snarled “if you kids don’t behave, there won’t be any Christmas!” Which terrified me to my child-soul. (Was I really that bad?! That Santa wouldn’t come at all…??) I had no understanding of adult hardship, or adult anxiety, or the pressure parents might face to “deliver” on the promise of Christmas to a child.
Two people who understood Christmas magic.
I went to bed that night, the house entirely ordinary in every way, feeling a bit saddened by my apparent naughtiness. I woke later, in the wee hours, to sounds I didn’t understand, and crept down the stairs very quietly – I could see light, around the corner of the landing. I peered down and around, hoping not to be seen, and… the wonder. The pure magic of the tree fully decorated, fully lit, stockings hanging from the mantlepiece. The piled up presents shimmered and sparkled as the tree lights twinkled. Wow! Santa had come!! I ran back up the stairs and crept close to my Dad, sleeping in my parent’s big bed. “Daddy? Daddy!” I wispered, “Santa came! He was here!” My father sleepily replied “You must not have been as naughty as I thought. Go back to sleep for a little while, it’s too early – he’s probably still working on things in the livingroom. If he sees you up, he’ll take it all back.” I raced quietly back to bed, and lay still and awake, listening carefully, for what seemed like hours, until my next youngest sister also woke, and also crept down the stairs, and came hollering back up like a storm “Santa was here! Santa was here!” and waking the household.
The morning became a chaos of wrapping paper shredded then discarded, a fire in the fireplace, and the arrival later of grandparents with more presents, Mom in the kitchen making breakfast, and Daddy making Bloody Mary’s. I only understood later how late into the night they’d been up, sharing the evening over package wrapping and toy assembling and tree decorating, and how little sleep they’d actually gotten that night (because I’d woken up around 5 a.m.) – but the magic lives with me even to this day. Real Christmas magic, created by mortal parents, for the delight of little girls. Beautiful. I don’t remember a single thing I got that Christmas – but I sure remember that Christmas.
Something changed after that Christmas, in a wonderful and unexpected way. The very next Christmas, Santa rather unexpectedly left our stockings at the foot of our beds! I remember waking (again, too early) and seeing/feeling it there… my stocking! Full of… Christmas! I surreptitiously dumped it on my bed, and gently looked through it, certain I shouldn’t be. I crept quietly to my parent’s bedroom, and gently woke my Dad to tell him, “Santa made a mistake and left my stocking on my bed, Daddy!” he opened one eye, reluctantly it seemed, and eyed the clock on his nightstand – 4 a.m. – “Go ahead and open it quietly, Babygirl, it’s okay. You can enjoy anything you find there as long as you’re quiet until at least 7 o’clock. If your sisters wake up, tell them, too, okay? Daddy wants to sleep until 7 o’clock, okay?” “Okay, Daddy,” I wispered, and softly slipped away to my room, closed the door and turned on my light.
Christmas had come! There were chocolates and lollies, and maple sugar candy, and little toys and puzzles, and a necklace of sparkly beads, and a tangerine in the toe of my stocking – I ate it first, feeling very “good” to save the chocolate for later. By 7 a.m., I was waiting impatiently, all sugared up, and so were my sisters. We three went to the door of my parents room promptly at 7 o’clock, “Daddy? Daddy… it’s 7 o’clock. Santa was here. It’s Christmas.” I heard my Mom groan from the other side of the bed. “Ern, couldn’t you have said 9??” (Ever after that Christmas, the stockings were always on the foot of our beds. A tradition I still adore, and what a creative way for exhausted hungover parents to get just a little more sleep. lol)
There were other merry Christmas holidays with family, and I enjoyed them. The holidays with my Granny as a teenager, spent visiting my various aunts and sharing the holiday with younger cousins, were lovely and safe and warm and joyful and full of light and love and tasty homemade cookies. I remember some of those moments, and what I remember I remember quite fondly. They blur together a bit, forming neither recollections of heartache nor recollections of profound joy. That’s okay, too; I know I was loved.
The Ghosts of Christmas Trauma
I’ll tread lightly here, because it’s a bit of a buzz kill; my first marriage was full of violence, terror, and trauma. Peculiarly, it was also were I found my earliest artistic encouragement, and Christmases were strange, sorrowful, scary, beautiful and full of madness. We were both trying to capture magic we remembered, but it all went terribly wrong as often as it ever went right. I developed a real terror around putting lights on the tree, and a profound, lasting, gut-wrenching anxiety that any single light might be placed “incorrectly”, resulting in unspeakable punishment.
The eagerness of Christmas morning was outweighed by the fear that a gift might be the wrong size, or color, or brand, or type of thing. My joy and my terror competed for attention, every year. I have magical memories of the Augsburg Kristkindlesmarket those years that we lived in that beautiful city, but I also remember walking without a coat on a snowy Christmas Day hoping to find any shop open wherein I could buy something special to replace something that wasn’t “good enough”, tears freezing on my face, ankles cold in the snow, shaking as much with fear as with the cold.
The first Yule season holiday after I finally left that nightmare was… strange. My Granny was fearful that I wasn’t ready to be alone, and invited me out to spend Christmas with her. It was lovely and warm and gentle, and I’m so glad I went. It was a time of healing, and I definitely needed that. When I wept over the loss of all my precious ornaments collected over the previous 14 years, she reminded me that I could start over (and she had sent me a box of antique ornaments she knew had been special to me as a child, that I would find waiting for me when I returned home. I still have those). She sent me home with something to think about, too; I could make Christmas over into something that felt right to me. My values. My idea of magical. No fear. The seeds of my own Giftmas traditions were born in that gentle holiday spent with my Granny, in 1995, as we talked about love and marriage and trauma and divorce and the challenges of finding our way through the chaos in life.
Tales of Giftmas Present(s)
Ever since that Christmas back in 1995, I’ve cherished the holiday season from Thanksgiving to New Year’s my own way and shared that love and joy with my partner(s), over various relationships over the years. I have ornaments from so many years – each year I add at least one new one, something special that says something about the year that has passed, and what made it special.
This year’s special ornament, made by my beloved Traveling Partner, favorite “sticker” characters we have swapped back and forth in our DMs all year, Peach and Goma.
I think about my Dear Friend, and Giftmases we shared over the years. So many special ones.
I enjoy really celebrating each year as it draws to a close. I love finding gifts to delight friends, family, loved ones. I love filling stockings each Giftmas Eve. I enjoy the shopping. The wrapping. The presents under the tree. I love the memories – year by year new beautiful memories add to those that have come before, crowding out the memories of terror or of sorrow. I remember the gifts, and the moments, and the love, every year. It’s not about gifts for me (though I definitely do love presents!); it’s about the gratitude, the appreciation, the fondness, and the celebration – and showing that joy through gift-giving as a tradition. The giving (and even the shopping) is a special thing of its own, and it has importance to the celebration, for me. Giftmas is built on these moments of giving and sharing: shared moments of light in a world that sometimes feels filled with darkness, moments to share “enough” and make it feel bountiful, and moments to set aside life’s challenges in favor of shared comfort and joy.
That very first Giftmas I spent with my Traveling Partner is a particularly fond memory filled with adult holiday magic, joy, and love. 2010. We had moved in together, and we didn’t have a lot (we’d both recently been through bad breakups and a lot of upheaval, moving suddenly had been very costly). We didn’t make much money, and rent was a bigger piece of our budget than ideal. It was hard times. We were doing our best, and agreed that maybe this year we’d “just skip Giftmas”. Wasn’t love enough, after all? I didn’t cry over it (at least not where he could see me), because it just made sense. Practical. Real. We were, after all, both adults.
I came home from work feeling a little blue one cold afternoon to a little tree in the corner of the livingroom, decorated for Giftmas, lights ornaments and little presents underneath. I remember the happy tears, and the joy on his face to see me so delighted. I remember his strong arms around me. I remember the love. More Giftmas magic. No fear. No sorrow.
So much love captured in a moment.
One of the most beautiful things my Traveling Partner did for me was buy me my first pre-lit fake tree, so I wouldn’t have to string the lights every year. He had seen (the prior year, before we moved in together) how much it hurt me, and how I struggled happy/sad with it, and he made it right. (I fucking love that guy.) Another beautiful memory of Giftmas magic. The real caring and consideration, the thoughtfulness, and the love; if I hadn’t understood how much these are part of Giftmas before, I surely knew then.
Along the way there have been so many lovely holidays. Beautiful moments. Giftmas magic. Thanksgiving feasts and New Years’ toasts. It’s a beautiful season and I do it my way – I’ve learned. There have been ups and downs and challenges, and years when there just wasn’t any money to be fancy, and years when somehow things were amazing in spite of that. Eventually, I enjoyed some Giftmas holidays “all alone” – and I enjoyed those my way, too. They were beautiful and bright and full of love, and solitude did not diminish that. One of those is among my favorites.
The more recent years are reflected in my writing (and I’ve grown along the way):
I sit for moment, thinking about how fortunate I am, and how far I’ve come. I’m grateful for every sparkle of Giftmas magic, and every year that I’ve enjoyed some little moment that continues to stand out for me now. No doubt there’s more to say, and I thought I had some kind of point… I guess I’m saying “begin again” when things seem to be sliding sideways unexpectedly. Put love first, and take care of yourself. Be kind and be compassionate and thoughtful, and take time to enjoy little moments of joy and delight – and make the holiday magic on your own terms. It’s not a contest, or a race, and there’s no report card at the end. There’s nothing to live up to that you didn’t make up on your own. I smile and sigh to myself, feeling content, feeling merry, feeling grateful and incredibly fortunate – and excited about Giftmas day. It’s only 3 days away!
I woke during the night, and it was the strangest thing. I turned over, and the vertigo that washed over me woke me abruptly. I thought it was near time to wake up anyway, so I laid still and quiet, and quite straight and flat on my back, waiting for the vertigo to pass. Once it did, which seemed rather a long while later, awake in the darkness, I checked the time. 02:55. Definitely not time to get up. I made myself more comfortable and went back to sleep. There was a Billy Joel song stuck in my head, which seemed peculiar enough to wonder why, as I drifted off to sleep.
I woke again later, properly time to get up and head for the trail. My vertigo spun my senses as I tried to orient myself. Damn it, why now? It passes and I sit up, aware of the intensity of the pain in my neck and back. Rough. I’m feeling pretty fucking mortal this morning and find myself worrying about making things as easy as possible on my Traveling Partner should my mortality catch up with me unexpectedly… Time to focus on paying off debts and fattening up savings and having things properly in order… But… For fucks sake isn’t it always time for those things? I sigh quietly and get up. I’ve got shit to do, and the morning begins here, now.
My day begins in earnest with the kitchen sink backing up first thing. What the absolute fuck?! Are you kidding me with this shit?! I snarl quietly to myself, aggravated with someone’s carelessness. Eggshells jammed into the drain, but not down into the disposal, and the strainer cup placed over those, so it wasn’t evident that they were there. Of course they didn’t go through the disposal that way. G’damn it. I try so hard to be quiet in the morning but I definitely can’t walk away with the fucking sink backed up. I roll up my sleeves and clear the clog. So gross. First fucking thing in the morning, too; I’m barely fucking awake and I’m not ready for this bullshit. Fixed. I wash my hands and head out, still annoyed.
The drive to the trailhead is quiet and pleasant. By the time I get parked I’m over being mad about the sink, but I definitely wish the Anxious Adventurer would take a little more basic care moment to moment, particularly in the fucking kitchen and in the shop. That kind of careless bullshit gets shit broken, or gets people hurt, or creates risk of injury or food-born illness. It’s too easy to get it right. It irritates me that he makes extra work for me so often. (I know he doesn’t mean to.) I sigh quietly. It begins to rain. My tinnitus is loud in my ears. My neck and back ache ferociously, a column of pain rising from my waist to the base of my skull. Fuck pain. I don’t feel much like walking in a drizzle in the pre-dawn darkness, uncertain whether my vertigo may flare up again, so I meditate, and write a bit, and wait for a break in the rain.
I’ve a couple errands to run for my Traveling Partner this morning, and think about stopping in town for a quiet coffee and a visit to the art supply store… No reason, really, it just sounds fun and satisfying. It’s a nice day to do something for myself, too.
The rain continues to fall. I listen to the raindrops on the car roof and sit quietly with my thoughts until it’s time to begin again.
I seriously dislike Daylight Savings Time. Doesn’t matter if we’re talking about the change in March or November, it’s beyond annoying. I’m not bitching about it because of the inevitable disruption to my sleep or sense of time and timing, it’s more practical than that; it fucks up my timing on time-sensitive meditations. This messes with my health, my feeling of wellness, my mood, and my general quality of life experience until a few days pass and I am adjusted to the change of timing. Super annoying. Very much over this pointless bullshit exercise.
I am sitting at a favorite trailhead waiting for a break in the rain. It’s a steady fairly heavy downpour this morning and I am already adjusting my expectations. Probably end up heading home without even getting out of the car, this morning, which manages to be far less annoying than the change of the clock. lol Honestly, I’m fine with it. My back is aching ferociously and I woke up with a headache. The rest of the day is probably going to be focused on housekeeping tasks and getting set up for a new work week, and I am fine with that, too.
The rain falls. I sit quietly with my thoughts. I sip my coffee. I meditate. I feel contented and generally satisfied, in spite of my pain. I breathe, exhale, and relax, listening to the rain fall. It’s a new day, and a chance to begin again.
As I came around the last bend in the road before I reached the city, the sunrise greeted me with a messy smudge of coral and orange, like badly applied lipstick. I so earnestly wished to make a right turn and chase that sunrise to wherever the day might take me…
The yearning hit me hard. I don’t find myself wanting to chase things like a bigger house, a more exotic car, Birkin bags, or Louboutin shoes. Sufficiency is generally quite enough for me, and I’m content with the occasional excesses of more modest scale, like garden seeds, or art supplies, or a new keyboard…but… I sometimes find myself faced with a very peculiar moment of yearning and discontent that is very much part of “who I am” (and has been for as much of my life as I can recall)… I sometimes earnestly and deeply want to be free of everything that defines my life – however it is presently defined. As though the constraints of habit and routine, and requirements and expectations, just get to be too much, and something within me spills out and I just want to… go. Somewhere. Somewhere else than wherever I am. I want to “chase that sunrise”. I want to sleep in and when I wake wander to some previously unvisited delightful breakfast spot and linger into the day over my coffee. I want to wander a beach or a forest trail, listening to the birds and the breezes. I want to be… untethered. I doubt this experience is unique to me, and it seems generally very human.
This morning, once my commute carried me to the city, and the car was parked in the usual place, and I frowned at the thermostat in the office on my way past it, as I often do, and made a cup of coffee (that has already gone cold), I sat down and did the payday stuff and the budgeting, like a proper grownup. No tears or terror, no stress, just regular adult shit that has to get done regardless of how lovely the sunrise may be. I’m okay with it. I don’t really need to drop everything and escape my existence, I’ve got a pretty comfortable life that I enjoy very much, and I’m fortunate to share it with a partner I love deeply, and who loves me back so wonderfully. Life is pretty good right now. I’m not objecting to that, or craving change – just acknowledging my restless nature, and maybe wishing it were already “camping season” (too chilly yet for me, personally). lol Funny creatures, human primates – give them everything they want and need in life, and still they find their way to discontentedness, wanting either more, or less. LOL
I sip my tepid coffee, unbothered by any detail of the morning, thus far. I’m okay. I breathe. Exhale. Relax. (Mutter something cranky about the broken heat in this office.) I stretch, and check my calendar. Set up my work day. Email the budget details to my Traveling Partner. There’s no particular stress to the day, so far. Hell, I’m not even in much pain; it seems very manageable so far. The sun continues to rise, and the buildings beyond the office reflect the golden glow and hints of orange and pink. Beautiful. I take a minute to enjoy it, before I sit down to write a few words.
It’s a Friday. I find myself missing my Traveling Partner greatly this morning, and wishing perhaps that I’d worked from home, but we’d discussed that yesterday evening, and he expressed a desire to make the day a quiet one, healing and resting, and to support that endeavor, I committed to the commute and the day in the office. Maybe a short one? I’d love to get the weekend started and get out in the garden again, or try a trail I’ve never walked before, or just… drive somewhere far. lol That restless nature nagging at me in the background almost makes me giggle – I’d be satisfied to spend the day in my studio, on an artistic journey, and as that thought crosses my mind, I realize that this is what I’m yearning for – some creative time in my own head, whether writing, or painting, or in the garden. Well, the weekend is here, and that’s easily done. I just have to begin again. 😀
Evening Light 