a star
I must give thanks. Even though all I feel is a slow turning inside my center. It’s nothing, really. Just the casual and persistent…
I must give thanks. Even though all I feel is a slow turning inside my center. It’s nothing, really. Just the casual and persistent nervousness that comes from the time we’re all living in. Here is the refrain: a black cat in my lap but you can’t tell because my pants are black, too.
I must give thanks again. Because we have a Christmas tree, because I spent the day grumpy all day yesterday until we went to the fancy and cute Christmas tree lot by the beautiful church. Here’s the part where I write about how the one guy working there single-handedly turned my whole family’s day around with his kindness. Here’s where I tell you that because Maewyn wanted a tiny tree just for her, a personal tree, and that we said no, the tree is for all of us, that she got upset and turned away from the fake forest of trees, and then the guy told her in his French-Canadian accent that he would make her a little ornament and then he did. He went over to the lighted area where his wreath-making materials were and wove a small boutonniere of dried flowers and wound it together with wire while we watched. Here is when I’ll tell you that we got home and wrapped it atop our tree, a beacon of kindness, our star.
I must give thanks for the chain of circumstances that lead me to writing these words here, in this format, and the bravery I cultivated to share them. Here is where I tell you that because someone once told me that I should write the words down while we sat together over a buttery sausage and cabbage casserole and a bottle of red wine, I sit here, tapping out some kind of something tonight.
Won’t you read this? My friend Lindsey wrote it and it’s absolutely gorgeous. She makes a great sausage and cabbage casserole.