we’ll dance and sing
I am reusing a photo of our Christmas lights from last year, and the piece of poem that attached itself to them. This is fitting, I think, as so very much the heart of the holidays lives in those things that stay the same, year after year.
Anticipation is a beautiful thing.
Fulfilment, a comfort.
Twinkling lights in the dark living room, breathing magic into the home, they will always call to me, draw me in. I can barely make myself leave at bedtime, longing to stay and sleep right there by the light and the fire. Like a beacon, these lights. They fill me me up and all I want to do is somehow wrap up all that is good in this world, the seemingly perfect love I imagine that these lights represent, and pour it into the hearts of everyone, everywhere.
Instead, feeling both hope and loss, I content myself with my own bathing in the light, on each of these December nights, until I know, soon, I will burst.
Yes, into song of the Christmas type. Into jolly, silly dancing with my children. Making merry, yes! I have a magic tree with magic, twinkling lights, what else can I do?
But in the quiet evenings, I can’t help but also feel full to bursting with wonder at this–the dark side of being alive, the hurting and the sorrow?
It feels wildly unfair, and such a holiday of wild abandon reminds me of this all the more. If only the fairy tale were true, I think. If only, the babe really were a miracle.
If only peace on earth, goodwill toward men were the gift blanketed on us all this December 25th, I would gladly give up my sweet holiday traditions.
I would never ask for another Christmas tree again.