I live in Michigan.
It is not supposed to be nearly fifty degrees and raining in December.
Of course, after the snowiest winter (ever) on record last year, most people are thanking goodness or whatever/whomever else they choose to thank for the respite from the real start of winter. Though we’ve had some bitterly cold days so far and even one terrible windstorm that knocked out power in the area (in some cases for days) we haven’t had winter yet.
As a result, to me it feels nowhere near Christmas, even though Christmas is only nine days away.
Sure, I’ve been listening to the music, watching the TV shows, consuming the cookies and even visiting holiday craft fairs and such when I was able to get out of the house for a few hours.
Sadly I paid for that short expedition with a back/shoulder/hip out of place and have been stuck on the couch for days since, but that is the price I pay for living in this body. Only one I've got, have to make the best of it.
I could feel that the rain was coming, before it got here. I always can.
Deep in my bones, I feel the shift in the atmosphere... in my head somewhere something clicks: and on a dark and dreary day like today all I can do is put the music back on and turn on my favorite tiny adorable/pathetic/perfect little Christmas tree that we picked up on sale for a dollar and change at the craft store—which I then decorated with the largest light strand in the house and the big snowflake ornament that was my husband’s gift this year at the company Christmas dinner—as I sit here; waiting for snow.
Waiting for a lot of things.
I hate those year-end retrospective type of posts so I’ll spare you the list of things I accomplished in 2014 that never, if you analyzed the odds on paper, should have happened.
Let’s just say I’m happy for the good things, and still somewhat in denial of most of the bad things, and just trying to come to a place of acceptance of them, some way to incorporate them day by day into my world the best I can while still trying to find the sweetness that life has left in it.
Suddenly I’m put in mind of that TV show where there are chefs given baskets containing a wide variety of ingredients from which they’re supposed to make, let’s say, a decadent dessert.
Oh, it’s all well and good and fun when they see the cocoa powder and heavy cream. Then they pull out a container of leftover broccoli smothered in artificial cheese sauce and a bottle of vinegar and the gravity of the situation hits them: they have to make the best of it. They still have to make something sweet.
That is such a metaphor for my life right now… making the best of it.
I have much to be grateful for—there is a lot of ‘sweet’ in my basket. The things that are wrong, though, are so wrong that it makes it difficult to make a chocolate soufflé and mask the taste of that damned spray-can cheese and broccoli.
(I can’t even eat cheese anymore.)
So, what is the plan, going forward, for me?
People ask about resolutions. I’m resolved not to make any.
There is too much instability, too many variables in play here— too many things and elements I can’t control to resolve that I'd like, say, my next book to hit a bestseller list on Amazon like two of my other ones have or even that I’ll write another novel in 2015 after I finish working on WISHING CROSS STATION, already in progress.
I’d like to think that I might. But there is just no knowing.
My life-- and health-- are like the weather in Michigan: there is no predicting, from hour to hour, what you’re going to get.
I can only sit here and wish, as I watch teardrops of rain fall down over the dead leaves that cling to the tree beyond my balcony and gather in puddles on the sidewalk below, that it would suddenly, magically, turn into pristine, sparkling white snow, hushing the world, and the noise inside my head, as it falls.