Coming out of a deep freeze
... to appreciate these gifts.
Back in November, snow coated the hillside and our home fell silent. Life felt slow. Suspended. And so it went for weeks on end. In the mornings, my body would groan awake to the blinding white and bone-cracking cold. I’d kick my limbs out from under my duvet and from there, every move was drawn out like a ritual. The raking of the coals. Cracking an egg. Setting a pot of coffee to percolate. Lighting a candle. I performed each task in a quiet daze, the baby whirling around me and Gregg and the Christmas tree in an ecstatic blur.
It was a humbling scene, if only I could remember to appreciate it. But instead, I found myself staring in disbelief at all the shiny baubles, velvety bows, and snow-draped maple boughs. It’s a confounding thing, to see such beauty on display when the loss of life this year has been so profound.
If I am happy (and I am—awfully so), I have, in large part, my son to thank. My son, for whom a big, glittery gift is as equally as fascinating as a ripped scrap of cellophane. Everything about him is so precious to me—his funny little toes, his sing-songy babblings, the way he giggles wildly at the pure delight of spinning—just spinning. I’d watch him, and for a moment I too was in awe again—of tinkling bells and silver strands of tinsel, of the familiar hum of merry old carols and the tongue-tingling crackle of red and green crystalline sprinkles.
I wonder, how can such joy co-exist with so much grief? But then the two are intertwined, aren’t they—bound together for better or worse. You can’t know one without the other, but of course that’s no consolation for those feeling the unbearable ache of absence.
And so November melted into December. Fresh snow drifted in, but my thoughts stayed frozen—fixated on the senselessness of celebration. When it came time to write this month’s Substack, I confess I just … couldn’t. I couldn’t create a cute little gift guide all tied up in a trendy bow. I couldn’t compose some sort of poetic retrospective. Because I still couldn’t make sense of any of it.
Instead, I walked the dog around the pond. I balled up socks and stacked them in a basket. I got bangs. I tickled the baby. We laughed and laughed. And my god, was I grateful.
And perhaps that’s the most radical act of all.
In loving memory of my cousin Jason, my co-worker Josefine, my neighbor Sam, and my Grandma D., who we lost 40 years ago yesterday.