Daily Prompt The holiday season: can’t get enough of it, or can’t wait for it all to be over already? Has your attitude toward the end-of-year holidays changed over the years?
via Getting Seasonal.
I asked a little elf I know to get up on the table and stretch out on art paper so we could trace around her and make a life size elf. She didn’t want to do it. She wanted to do sewing, until her big sister got up on the table. Then, of course, Elfie was all about being the one to get traced.
I ran my pencil around both of their squirming, ticklish little bodies. Then we doodled and painted until we’d created Elf and Pixie.
As I taped the elf masterpiece up on the front door it struck me that the elf was me. It was like looking in a mirror.
Well, I’m not that slender. I don’t apply lipstick quite so randomly and I don’t have that particular outfit, but I swear, this is an accurate depiction of me this Christmas. I’ve been festive all over the place.
Earlier this month my driver, Mr. Raven, took me on a ten hour drive home for our 33rd anniversary weekend. We visited family and dined with friends and I went on a very festive shopping spree.
I went to a Solstice party, made a snowman, stitched ornaments, baked cookies, decorated my faux yule tree, wrapped and wrote and stood in line to mail.
I did all the things.
I even played from the hymnal and sang Silent Night with my granddotters, just like we used to do when I was their age. I still like the music. After supper on Christmas eve, my grandma played piano and we sang our favorite Christmas songs. Then we read the passage from Luke. Then we opened presents and ate lefsa. It was agony, waiting for presents.
And this is true, last night Mr. Raven, the two elves and I held hands and frolicked like pagans, laughing and dancing a wild dance in a circle in front of the tree. I’m sorry, there is no video. I was busy dancing.
Now it’s Christmas eve. Husband and I have a quiet day to ourselves. I lit candles. I baked corn muffins for the ravens and I gave one to the hens. I cleaned the fishbowl. That was the nicest gift I could think of for Mr. Bean: some fresh, clean water and food. NPR was playing beautiful Christmas music, so I cranked it up and set his fishbowl in front of the speaker. I think he liked it; he seemed to stay on the radio side of the bowl.
Feather snow was falling down.
You’d a-thought I was chopping onions, the way my eyes welled up, the way the unstoppable teardrops plopped into the kitchen sink for no good reason. There was nothing wrong.
It was just the music, fond memories and perfect feather snow.