The Moment Just Before the Honey

“Well," said Pooh, "what I like best," and then he had to stop and think.
 Because although Eating Honey was a very good thing to do, there was a moment just before you began to eat it which was better than when you were, 
but he didn't know what it was called.” 

― A.A. Milne, Winnie-the-Pooh

Okay, so before I begin let me just take a moment to appreciate the Christmas miracle here. Are the lights in the picture of my Christmas tree twinkling? Because they are as I write this and I don't know how they're doing it! I took the picture with my phone, I uploaded it to this blog, and all of a sudden the lights are twinkling! ... It's not quite a virgin birth, but you gotta admit it's pretty cool. 

But I digress. I was visited by the ghost of Christmas past tonight. -- Magical photographs. Literary apparitions. Some of you are wondering if I may be hitting the eggnog a little too hard, I can tell. -- Maybe it was the "Twilight Zone" episode Miles and I watched last night. It was called "Walking Distance" and it was about an unhappy guy who wanders into his own childhood, a happy childhood he longs to return to. That's not what this is about, but it is about childhood and happiness and anticipation and presence. 

Christmas Eve: Lying in the "way back" of our VW Square Back looking at the stars and singing "The Twelve Days of Christmas" as we drive to my uncle Hal's house,  my great aunt Leta's Chex Party Mix, my Nana's dinner rolls and sweet tea, the dinner blessing which always ended with, "We thank you for this food and we pray that you'll bless it to the good of our bodies. In Jesus' name we ask it. Amen," the abundance of blond little kids in the house when you added my sister and me to the cousins, the smell of evergreens and the twinkle of lights, Uncle's Hal's light blue leisure suit, and my sister and I in matching dresses. And the anticipation. There is nothing like the painfully sweet taste of anticipation.

Of course it was not all tinsel and candy canes. Later there was listening to my step father argue with his ex-wife over who would see their girls when on Christmas Day. My own parents spared my sister and me that fight, but we were still shuffled around plenty during the holidays. Sometimes I felt like I was watching other people have Christmas while I was bustled from my mom's house to my dad's house to my grandma's house to my step grandparents' house. I remember just wanting to BE somewhere. But it's okay. I don't want my mom and dad to feel guilty as they read this. Because mostly I felt loved on Christmas. Mostly I felt warm and well fed and surrounded by the most important people in my life. And I am grateful for that. A lot of people don't get that. I grew up with parents who adored me, two sets of grandparents who couldn't get enough of me, lots of aunts and uncles and cousins, holiday traditions and comfort food. I grew up with an abundance of what matters.

I was going to write about anticipation, about the difference between that moment before you eat the honey and the taste of the honey on your tongue. I was going to talk about how Christmas is often more about anticipation and expectations than acceptance and presence. Instead I wandered into my past, a history that I have come to love and accept in spite of, or maybe because of, its imperfections. 

The holidays are sparkly and lovely, especially on the surface. When you unwrap them sometimes you find they are not what you asked for. They are too big or too small, too gaudy or dull, broken maybe. Then again, sometimes they surprise you with moments of joy and love so big your heart could burst. You just never know what you're gonna get. Usually it's a mixed bag. And so I'm offering this little reminder for all you kids from one to ninety two: Show up for the holidays. Be present for the moment before the honey AND the moment it drips onto your tongue. And if you end up covered in a sticky mess, be present for that too. Notice who shows up to help you clean up. There are gifts in all of it. I dare you not to find one.

Don't Bother Reading This

"If you really want to do something, you’ll find a way.

 If you don’t, you’ll find an excuse."

~ unknown

Several weeks ago, my friend Peter told me that he could only assume that my life must be flowing along smoothly, all my problems solved, not a care in the world. However did you get that idea, I asked. I mean Jeeze, I'm going through a divorce, I'm a busy single parent and, as the saying goes, there's too much month left at the end of the paycheck.  Heck, I can't even get the dog walked every day. Whatever gave you the impression that I had it all together? Well, he said, you haven't written a blog post in a long time. 

Oh. That.

You probably shouldn't bother reading this. It's really just my feeble attempt to get back up on the horse I fell off of. This is me keeping my butt planted on this chair until there are at least three paragraphs on the screen in front of me. For a year, I found a way to post something almost every week. But now, I'm not finding a way to do that. I'm finding excuses. They're really good excuses too: Divorce, extra jobs to make ends meet, a new relationship. This is meaty stuff. These are not your run of the mill I had-to-clean-the-bathroom kind of excuses (no one who knows me would believe that one anyway). In the end though, they're still excuses. "If you really want to do something, you'll find a way."

So, don't read any further. You're really just wasting your precious free time. Come back next week and see if I'm still around. If I've posted something for three or four weeks, then maybe it will be worth your time. I'm stiff and rusty right now. Your time would be better spent watching an episode of "Orange is the New Black" on Netflix. That's what I'd be doing if I were not demanding my butt to remain in this chair. 

Writing this blog was a life raft for me for a year. Taking the time to reflect on my family and friends, my history, my ordinary day was so healing, so grounding. And my ordinary stories seemed to resonate with a few folks. It turns out I was not all alone on my little life raft on the open ocean. I had my people with me. We helped each other bail out water and patch up holes. We told each other we were good enough. Writing my stories helped me lighten the load by throwing some guilt and shame overboard and it taught me the futility of perfectionism. It also helped me be present for the things that really matter. Writing really is a spiritual practice. That's what my friend Ken told me a couple of years ago. He was right. And I've missed that practice.

Wow. If you've stayed with me this long, thanks. I said in one of my posts last year that I wanted to model imperfection for people. I want to be the spokes-model for being good enough, no airbrushing my flaws. I have found a million excuses not to write and I might find more. But today I wrote something.