This year was going to be the one when I finally did the holidays right. I was going to be both pragmatic and intuitive, jolly and serene, organized and free-flowing, and full of holiday joy.
Two words: face plant.
If you happen to be in a counseling profession (life coaching, social work, parenthood, cocaine sales) you know that December is not so much a month as a recursive disease, like malaria. It makes humans jumpy, gloomy, and fussy. This year, just when I thought I was immune, I had a grand mal attack of the Decembers.
To those who talked me down from various neurotic ledges: I thank you. To those who taught me to play calming cellphone games: I owe you. To those who received a roll of tape from the post office as your gift from me: Please know that somewhere in my house is a beautiful, thoughtful gift I bought for you in October, then carefully hid. From myself.
At this writing, I’m skidding into 2014 with my face still firmly planted where my feet should be. And that’s okay. It reminds me that every time I try to meet exorbitant expectations and become a fantasy version of myself that has never actually existed, I experience wipeouts of epic proportions.
I’m left with little choice but to watch the devastation from my heart, which has no idea what December means to my mind. Dropping language and coming home to the moment, I see immediately what I hide from myself every December (and it’s not just your present). I see that every day is a holy day. I see that celebrating, generosity, and gratitude are simple states of being, not unattainable ideals. Every out-breath recalls miracles, the presence of the divine in stables and candle flames. Every in-breath is a delicious feast, an offering, a gift.
I guess it’s worth losing some face to remember that.