This year I’ve got an artificial tree, covered in colored lights and rainbow balls. Not my tradition; Significant Other’s. I got the tree at Walgreen’s, and carried it on the bus back to our city digs. An act of love, plain but not simple.
I am so happy to have found someone I care for enough to relinquish my High WASP aesthetic, no request needed.
Today I’ll set up a grown-in-the-dirt tree, white lit, for my children, most likely with my grandmother’s angel up top. Later next week luxuriate in holiday spirit with my family and kids. For the first time this year my kids are attending as adults, drawing into the Christmas giving for one present, while the young cousins get stuff from grandparents, aunts, and uncle alike.
This year I will see my children more clearly in their giving, rather than receiving. “I like to give my money away,” said my son, as we IMd the other day. However, I reserve the right to indulge in extra Mom presents. Of course.
Things just change in life, that’s how it works. Some people prefer the tried and true, the routine. I understand. We’re all different. But most any time I get melancholy I can startle myself into a tiny rapture by paying attention. I find my way forward most often via a conscious waiting for the sadness to pass through, and a parallel close observation of exactly what’s right there.
I find surprise. The click of existence. The recognition of privilege, in a larger sense.