Somehow the radical reality of this year seems to be setting in as we are pushed into the holidays. I have no problems staying home. Staying in. Staying isolated.
Both because I want nothing to do with spreading the deadly virus, and because I’m just really, heavily, fully, mightily tired.
Learning to hold righteous rage in the same palmed fist with genuine compassion has left me feeling raw, shredded, exposed, and inadequate in so very many ways.
Being unable to hug the ones I love the most in this world has left me feeling a loneliness I never knew I could feel. A longing stretches out within me, a reaching, a craving for the kind of up close and intimate touching I always loved but now realize I took for granted, too.
I am a big bear tight squeeze hugger. Hugging is my favorite. Not in a creepy way, mind you, in the kind of way where it is just a flood of gratitude to be with each other. A tiny fleeting ecstatic celebration. That we have each other. That we can hold on and hold fast and know we are not alone hurtling through empty space.
A lot of empty space this year. And plenty of chaos, fear, terror, and turmoil to fill it.
So I’m not going to fill my holidays with screens or Zooms or chaos. I can’t stomach it. I can’t be bothered to do or be a single thing or way other than what I am. Exhausted. Over it. Done.
There will be plenty of delicious food, and many bottles of wine. There will be a table glowing with candles and set elegantly with silverware and crystal for my two greatest loves in all the universe, my husband and my son.
There will be holiday jazz.
There will be pine boughs on the mantle.
There will be pajamas all day and an endless number of cut logs blazing in the fireplace.
Warm hearts and laughter and complete and total ignorance of the outside world.
I need my bubble now. I need to reconnect with the beauty of nature and the quiet thorough joy of reading for hours on end. Leftovers. Sleeping in. Twinkle lights.
The thing about 2020 has been the countless ways it has broken, stretched, and shattered my insides. The hard lessons. The breathtaking manner in which people and events, culture and society, have snapped me wide awake.
Hit me like a lightening bolt over and over and over again.
But the truth is you cannot stay awake forever. You will go insane.
So for now, rest.
For now, enough.
For now, peace in our tiny homes.
In our little trembling hearts.
Photo by Joyce Huis