Today, in town, minus the merry-related products and gifts, you could be mistaken for thinking it was just another evening of shopping and grabbing. A convivial air to be sure, but nothing too definite. Beyond the window of toys, maybe things were always like this.
This Christmas will be my very first away from family. I want both where I’m going and where I’ve been. Too comfortable in what I’ve had and too excited for what I don’t. So off I trot (with that skip in step). The destination: the beach, the wonderful, the partner in crime. I might write her a children’s book – one to make her smile. With illustrations, too no less. One where a girl of doubt grows to defeat the big monster. It has been done before. It can be done better with a brighter light. Or I’ll be the one to sprightly devour whatever I’m told to buy; mow the shelves of “the perfect” gift.
Christmas used to be something different. It used to be excitement and vibrancy and trance-like and selfish. Now it has become somewhat symbolic and grows every year as a distraction to the norm. It’s a way out of the crippling formalities and normalities of every other day. It’s not the birth nor the under-tree offering; it’s a sort of time you can trust. You may now vomit. [Be Santa.]
Great post. Laaavely.