Christmas is such a weird time. Can I say that? I mean, I know there are lots of articles and programs out there on the stressors that are triggered this time of year; the family drama, the reverting to childhood of individuals who, otherwise, feel they have 'worked' through the best of their crap. But I don't see much about the longing that oftentimes, at least for me, accompanies Christmas.

I feel I should back up. I am a child of December. December 14th, to be exact. So as a little one, the whole of the month was filled with such anticipation. In school, the likelihood that on my birthday, I would be asked to turn back the small flap on the Advent calendar. The walking up towards my house, a house surrounded by stacks and stacks of snow, to see the Christmas tree had been put up while I was out. And it was a fake tree, too, that to me could not have been more beautiful. The small plastic reindeer were on the window ledge, the illuminated Santa faces hung in the two main windows of our flagstone house.

My childhood was not a perfect time by any means. There were arguments and strife and so many things left unsaid, at least verbally. But my Christmases, my Decembers, remain untouchable. Even the one when I was sick with the chicken pox. (OK, in retrospect, that was lousy). I can recall lying in bed in my room one Christmas Eve and looking out the small window that framed the moon and thinking 'the sooner I fall asleep, the sooner it will be morning..."That we ever feel such a sense of magic, of wonderment is enough for me. I don't need to feel it now. I don't and yet...I long for it. I think I do because I knew it was existed, and because like anything we feel, it is still somewhere inside us. Not necessarily practical, but there nonetheless.

When I was a kid, it was naturally about wanting to tear through my gifts. Hoping that big box left under the tree had my name on it. The enormous (now, not so much) wooden sled with tartan padding that leaned to the left of the tree, the game of Clue, my first watch - a round, plain-faced Timex of course, that I still own - and in later years, the Rumours album. But this year the real moments of joy have come from finding or making just the right gifts. Because more and more I see that for whatever reason, be it stress, loss, longing, illness, want of any kind, Christmas can be hard. Hard with a capital H. So it actually gives me genuine joy to think maybe whatever I've given someone, for just that moment, makes them feel genuinely special and cared for. Don't get me wrong. I still love receiving presents and soft things and the corner piece of the store-bought cake, better still one with being sugar rosettes on it. But the gifts I give and the moments of pure  happiness I like to think that accompanies their opening, is a game-changer. (Again, please don't think this means I don't like opening gifts addressed to me and me alone, because you'd be mistaken!)

Christmas, like aging, or watching a parent age, is not for sissies. It is, or ought to be, for adults only. It is profound, it is life-changing and it is bitter and sweet, but I'd have to say it is more of the former. When it's a kid you are dealing with, or when it's an aged parent, mostly, the change has got to happen with you, in you. And I don't know about you, but sometimes I can only change so much and so fast. So then I rest, if I'm lucky transform a little more, dig a bit deeper and then maybe, 'cause I'm human, I step back. I cut myself a break, perhaps wisely, perhaps not. I muddle and F*ck Up royally and then do more of the same and try not to regret, over-analyze, over-apologize, or over-anything. But being human, I sometimes do. And I hope that it all works out in the end. And sometimes I drink a glass of wine, or better still a gin & tonic with a slice of lime and a maraschino cherry and flip through the latest edition of Vanity Fair.

But the aforementioned sweet, perhaps not belaboured enough but still real, is...real. The peacefulness of a beloved pet sleeping on a radiator, the utter love with which they sometimes take you in, the way a piece of music (see link below) can reach through your breast bone and grab your heart in such a way you didn't think possible, at least not anymore. The smell of a Scotch Pine, the soft twinkling of lights on the boughs of the tree with - at last - snow falling softly behind it, visible through the windows. The quiet of your living room as the setting for all this, while you wear your Dad's beige wool cardigan that still smells like him. To miss that Dad in ways you can't ever put into words and to wonder what he'd think of those fine lines that now appear around your eyes when you smile. A slight man, but one with quiet conviction and the hands of a French-Alps farmer, of his father; wiry and strong and able to steer me from behind my neck either purposefully or lovingly. Or both, in retrospect. The imperfect, but dearly loved ballast of this family. All to say, I am so blessed Dad. So blessed.  Born on the 5th of January and passed on the 7th. I miss you beyond all measure. You'd have loved the cats (and they'd have loved you).

Merry, peaceful Christmas. Let's see what 2012 brings.

Love to all.


Magnum Mysterium; Nordic Chamber Choir.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nn5ken3RJBo&feature=share