Jonesing on the Porch

Christmas in the trailer is so different than any before. It’s so quiet that I feel tempted to buy a used guitar, sit on the porch, and sing to the youngins. Of course I’d have to wrangle some youngins, because mine are oldins, but wrangling youngins might land me in jail. I remember the good old days when neighborhood kids were part of your extensive family, obligated to help you with your groceries, run to the store for you, and, yes, even listen when you sang.

The world has shifted, and for me, Christmas has shifted too. For those of you who don’t know this, we’ve recently moved from our 2500 sq ft home to a 300 sq ft trailer. We sold our furniture and stored our stuff. Actually, I was able to squirrel away an amazing amount of stuff in the cupboards, draws, and tiny closets of our tinny little trailer, but I have no idea where I’ve put most of them.

That’s kind of how I feel about Christmas this year. I have no idea where I’ve put it, or where TO put it, and this is making me blue. Not boohoo blue, but more of a brooding blue. I’m missing the familiar traditions, which I thoughtfully strung around my old Christmases, and because of this I feel a sort of vacancy inside. It’s like Christmas has gone out for a stroll, without telling me, so I’m here on my porch, wondering where it went.

I know that I have to start from scratch with Christmas, but it doesn’t seem fair, because it took me a lifetime to create the old Christmas. I feel totally polarized. Yesterday I stood in the middle of our trailer for 5 minutes holding a string of lights and then put them away because there was no place to hang them, and if that wasn’t crappy enough, I’ve been waiting over a year to finally have a working stove, so that I could make sleigh loads of holiday cookies, but now I can’t because I’m on a low carb diet, which was recommended by my cardiologist. “Oh” you say, “Don’t eat them. Make them and give them away”. That would be like telling a zombie not to go for the brains. I have no self control in such situations.

The truth is that I’m afraid to let go of my little holiday habits because the world has gotten so damn scary. My Christmas traditions helped to cushion me from all the chaos and clatter, like a soft pillow over my head, Christmas muffled out the discord. Okay, so maybe it was a bit limiting, even smothering at times, but I was willing to overlook it because, well…it’s all that I knew. But now my pillow has been taken away, and I’m jonesing on the porch, because that’s the only place I can string the Christmas lights.

I know I sound like a whiny ass baby, and maybe I am, but I’m hoping if I sit on my porch long enough I might discover something profound…that in the deep, Leah silence, I am being called to this very moment, where a powerful light is shining. Sort of my very own Christmas light, originating from a place that I’m sure I’ve been, yet I can’t name. A familiar place where Ma’s hot chocolate never grows cold, color crayons are perpetually pointy, and life is its own answer. A place where one needn’t look outside of their own full heart to find happiness, for love resides within, a generous love that desires to consume fear, hate, and indifference, and is capable of rocketing you into your incredible life every moment of every day. It is the reason for life, which also happens to be the reason for this season.

Wow! Where’d that come from? I must have been channeling George Bailey and Gandhi.

Happy holy days, people. May you discover that you are not as powerless and alone as you might believe, and that your small hands are actually God’s hands, waiting to ease the world’s woes. So go forth and be merry woe easers, and if you’re in the neighborhood stop by the porch for a little eggnog. I’d invite you in but...there’s no room at the tin. Ta dum dum.

A Confusing Cocktail

Have you ever begun a journey, intent on one destination, only to find you’ve been detoured to another? Such was my journey to Massachusetts last week. Yes, I’m here — physically, looking about in wonder at death's fiery brilliance; colorful trees canopy the city's narrow streets like leafy umbrellas splattered by nature's palette, and I can't help but wonder if the leaves know that they’re dying.

I came here with a purpose in mind — a sole purpose. How foolish of me to imagine that I could predict my purpose. For one thing is often a cover for another — the bait and switch. And here I am now, sitting stunned, and softened like a slice of clay that has been kneaded into a supple clump.

The shock of it all is still with me. I can’t seem to move past it. My cousin Jimmy is gone. I try to conjure his face, his being, that curly hair, distinct voice, eyes that painted the world with grace and humor.

The first paragraph of my last blog haunts me: “I’m heading up to MA for a spell. I have a vital mission—a delicate assignment appointed to me by the angels and I’m certain that all of heaven will be watching and cheering. And that’s how it should be—packed stands of roaring fans, cheering on brave souls with holes in their shoes.”

This photo causes my breath to hitch…

City Hall

This is where Jimmy worked for the last 26 years.

And who would have known that I was coming to say goodbye one day after his birthday, and to recite his eulogy to a crowd of stunned fans.

I’m drunk on a confusing cocktail of loss and grace. The grace is as thick as honey, reflecting light from afar…perhaps a place where newly departed souls go to catch their breath. But then that muddy wave of loss hits, washing over everything, coloring the world in gray.

I should have known that his soft heart would betray him, for it was too weak to carry him into his golden years where silver–haired sages gather to share costly secrets. He took a shorter route, heading up rather than across, and now he knows what all those white heads don’t know—what we ponder as we pound the pavement. He knows it all, and somehow this knowledge comforts me.

It is just enough to keep me from despair.