I don't remember when I started not liking the "Holiday Season." As a kid I loved Christmas - the anticipation, the excitement, the decorations, the carols, the snow, the Christmas vacation, the Christmas tree, and the presents. Playing with the manger scene, mixing trolls and Barbies with Mary, Joseph and the Wise Men, all wanting to hold the baby Jesus. Tinsel. Ice skating. Secrets. Shopping. I think it most of all, was the magic. This was the time of year when everyday boredom and fear was suspended - it was a reprieve. At least that was my expectation. Perhaps, over the years, as this reprieve gradually eroded, as the suspended gunk oozed back down to earth, so did my Christmas spirit. When bad stuff could happen even on Christmas, that was that.
Now, I just want to skate away. I catch the edge of the joy, sometimes more, which then makes me feel worse. As the season comes to a close and the new year beckons, I'm oppressed by disappointment about not getting something I wasn't even aware I was hoping for.
I look at the garden. Oxalis gone wild. Crinkly tomato plants with withered fruit that didn't get a chance to ripen. Dead vines clinging to the garage wall. It looks how I feel. Weedy. A little out of control. Daunted. Yet a few plants are valiantly thriving in spite of the cold, dark, and drear. Some pea vines look incredibly healthy. And the cover crops in the corn patch are steadily inching up in neat rows. Logically, I know that a good mow and removal of dead stuff will work wonders. Yet how it seems at first glance resonates so well with my mood, it's hard to muster the hope that gardening is all about.
I know there is no summer without winter, no light without dark. I could learn from the plants who go through their dormant times with grace and acceptance.
