My own personal Christmas
It is possible, I believe, to question the status quo too much. To break down the influences and understandings that shape functional life so far that they no longer support themselves and the most long-held assumptions sift themselves into powdery nothing.
Christmas, again, pushes me into a confused daze through which I fail to see or feel any cohesive purpose. I understand the intellectual, historic and spiritual aspects of the day at least in a basic sense, but on a practical level it faces me with frustration and passiveness.
I find myself in Virginia again, back at the jumping off place. Returning here is like coming back to an unfinished sentence that promises to be interestingly fulfilling, except that I don't remember what it is.
Christmas last year was identical in structure: I flew in from Kansas and whoever came to pick me up somehow didn't see me coming out of the gate and standing there blinking around at all the hugging, greeting strangers before assuming that I was not being picked up by anyone and going to claim my luggage in a red-eye stupor. Daniel still lives here and Jason and Charlotte made their usual entries at the usual times.
Last year was tumultuous. Unmentioned members of the family got into emotionally charged, weepy arguments leading to the slamming of doors and feeble failures of attempts at mediation.
The highlight of it all last year was in the calm after the angry, yelling storm when I looked out the back door and saw Jason standing by the woods smoking a cigarette. I dind't know he smoked. I went out and stood next to him and bummed one for myself, and he didn't know I smoked either (which I actually don't, I just CAN). One by one we kids made our silent confession and our only connection as we gathered in the muddy yard by the bare trees and blew smoke quietly at the branches.
This year is much calmer, but I have to ask myself how many Christmases can it still be about the ham and the presents perfectly wrapped, after which everyone sleeps and watches tv in their own part of the house. I like the presents and the big dinner, but it's become the entire point. I think I'd rather spend Christmas with a bottle of wine and a batch of gingerbread cookies in a canoe floating down a salty river, spreading merriment to the fish.
That's as much as I wrote on Christmas. I think I had more I intended to say but probably got distracted by something seasonal and edible.
Christmas, again, pushes me into a confused daze through which I fail to see or feel any cohesive purpose. I understand the intellectual, historic and spiritual aspects of the day at least in a basic sense, but on a practical level it faces me with frustration and passiveness.
I find myself in Virginia again, back at the jumping off place. Returning here is like coming back to an unfinished sentence that promises to be interestingly fulfilling, except that I don't remember what it is.
Christmas last year was identical in structure: I flew in from Kansas and whoever came to pick me up somehow didn't see me coming out of the gate and standing there blinking around at all the hugging, greeting strangers before assuming that I was not being picked up by anyone and going to claim my luggage in a red-eye stupor. Daniel still lives here and Jason and Charlotte made their usual entries at the usual times.
Last year was tumultuous. Unmentioned members of the family got into emotionally charged, weepy arguments leading to the slamming of doors and feeble failures of attempts at mediation.
The highlight of it all last year was in the calm after the angry, yelling storm when I looked out the back door and saw Jason standing by the woods smoking a cigarette. I dind't know he smoked. I went out and stood next to him and bummed one for myself, and he didn't know I smoked either (which I actually don't, I just CAN). One by one we kids made our silent confession and our only connection as we gathered in the muddy yard by the bare trees and blew smoke quietly at the branches.
This year is much calmer, but I have to ask myself how many Christmases can it still be about the ham and the presents perfectly wrapped, after which everyone sleeps and watches tv in their own part of the house. I like the presents and the big dinner, but it's become the entire point. I think I'd rather spend Christmas with a bottle of wine and a batch of gingerbread cookies in a canoe floating down a salty river, spreading merriment to the fish.
That's as much as I wrote on Christmas. I think I had more I intended to say but probably got distracted by something seasonal and edible.
posted by sarah at 8:10 PM
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