It rained where I was on christmas day, washing me in homesickness. This time of year especially, the short days and cold dreary weather, despite all the nice time with friends and family in the past couple of weeks, coming back to the grey city and this quiet apartment… there is so much, so many, that i miss. And this pattern of scurrying between a series of short reunions with different arms of my family, each repeating the favourite rituals, trying to create, recreate, that feeling of celebration that we all want to feel when we get together… I feel torn and patched together, tired. Bereft.
Am I imagining that holidays used to feel different? I miss that sense of concentrating excitement, a thickening of energy and goodness around me, anticipation and easy delight, a timelessness, feeling like the centre of something, feeling love and joy gather around me to hold me close. Is this what it feels like being a child (the youngest child, the coddled child)? To not be a child any longer?
Or is this just nostalgia for a wisp of myth, an imagined and wished for feeling of what family is or should or could be. I suppose it doesn’t matter really. Now i am the one who goes to see others, try to gather close and recreate that drawn in drawn together feeling of warmth and comfort, always feeling like i don’t quite fit into any nest, i can’t get close enough to the centre. Pining the whole time for my own imperfect nest, the only one that fits now, this home i can’t help but see as temporary, in a city I don’t want to stay in, that feels empty and distant when i finally return to it.
I should let go of this, practice thankfulness for all i do have, for all the love… but on a cold grey day at the end of december it is difficult to do.
The next few days are for regathering focus and making meaning, setting a course for the coming year. It will be a quiet evening in, just the two of us this year.
It will be okay.