It just doesn’t feel like the holidays yet. Perhaps it is because the past week or so has been nothing but obligations: running errands, tending to unforeseen things that have a tendency to arise when there is no time to deal with them, and trying to “get ready” for the festivities (or rather, stress about buying all the things that have not yet been bought). The end result, however, is more Bah-Humbug than Happy Holidays.
The days slip away, and each day I count down how many more days before the holidays are here. I contemplate what event I can mark off next, as if they are hurdles to be overcome rather than moments to savor. I—so caught up in preparing for fifteen minutes of unwrapping—have forgotten to slow down and enjoy the quiet sense anticipation of the season.
I do know how to manage it, which helps. I need to find the quiet. Sometimes I need to go outside and stand in the winter’s chill and lift my eyes to the heavens. Or perhaps it is enough to wrap myself in a well-worn tartan and, with a wee dram in hand, sit before the flickering fire and let the stress rise and float away like the crackling embers. Or solace may come to me in the still of night, while I listen to the rise and fall of breath next to me, and—reaching over and laying my hand across his chest–find blessings enough in the warm and solid presence of my husband.
There are too many commercials, too many parties and luncheons, too many forced celebrations. I will find my joy in the quiet moments in between. In the twinkle of Christmas lights in the darkness and in stars overhead, in the smell of gingerbread baked “just because.” And in ancient carols spilling from smiling lips…rather than tinny sounding sounds blared over department store speakers. I’ll take comfort in the pile of wood next to my hearth, in a pair of warm mittens when I tend to the chickens. And, as I add more hay to their coop, I’ll recall another manger, another night, another twinkling star…and I’ll remember what is important.