It’s Christmas morning. I’m back in Philadelphia, but will be driving back to State College in a few hours. It’s another Christmas that doesn’t quite feel like Christmas. I didn’t decorate my place – mostly because I wasn’t going to be there and partially because I figured the dog might pee on the tree if I got one. I also didn’t want to unpack the stockings. Of the five new ones I bought a few years ago, I’m the only one left. For most of my adult life, Christmas morning was reserved for the quiet intimacy of the immediate / nuclear family. I’m still learning how to navigate the holidays without that. Absent that type of consistency, I don’t feel like I’ve found my place yet. Sitting in a guest bedroom, I find myself thinking about the type of Christmas morning / day I would like – almost wanting someone else to help define it for me.
Last night, after the guests had left, I came upstairs and thought I might write. I felt more driven by a sense of obligation than anything else – I’ve posted something about the holidays here the last few years. Not having anything to say (still don’t) I went back to re-read what I wrote in 2019 and 2020. 2019 was rough. I was sick (could have been COVID which we didn’t know about at the time). I was walking around Philly thinking about an ex. I wrote a poem or two about how we had liked exploring the city – at least I think that’s what the poems were about. I was thinking about how different 2018 and 2019 were. I remember having this same sensation of not quite being home. Last year, I stayed in State College – COVID was spiking everywhere and people were urged not to gather. I had shared a poem from Stephen Dobyns, “Freight Cars.” Re-reading the poem last night, the lines still hit hard in how they question our nature of always seeking:
…
out in the country, riding freight car
after freight car, just squeaking by
in pursuit of some private quest.
That’s the problem, isn’t it?
Coming into the world and imagining
some destination for oneself,
some place to make all the rest
all right, as we cast aside those
who love us, as they cast aside others
in their turn, and all of us
wandering, wandering in a direction
which only our vanity claims to be forward,
Last year at this time, I had also gone back to re-read the posts from 2019. This is the double-edged sword of having alone time – there’s a lot of time to reflect (perhaps too much)… which isn’t necessarily a bad thing, but it can make one feel a little stuck. I think, given other options, I would, perhaps in my vanity, prefer some movement that feels a little like moving forward or something that makes reflecting on the past the less attractive option. As it stands now, I feel a little like I’m tagging along or going through the motions as opposed to owning or fully participating in the moment. And maybe that’s what I’m missing – Christmas morning used to be a my time / our time type of morning and I don’t have a good sense of how to get that back or make that new.
There’s a bird tweeting her little head off out back and I can hear the low rumble of a plane taking off in the distance. I’m looking forward to taking the dog for a walk this afternoon, and I suppose that’s as good a start as any.