I woke briefly last night, as young lips brushed my sleepy cheek.
"I'm home."
"How was it?" I murmured, not waiting for an answer.
This morning, our dining room table was cluttered with the detritus of her answer, the one I did not stay awake for--a crumpled, hand-written note, a small jewelry box and a necklace, red netting cradling two clementines. And a perfectly good Christmas sack I hoped no one had stuck tape to.
For some reason, the pile seemed foreign to me, too much stuff. And I thought about all of the ways--most of them unintentional--in which I have imprinted myself upon my children. I did not need her to be awake for me to know how she felt last night, wondering, briefly, if she'd underdone it. Not gotten her Secret Santa enough. Even though I'd encouraged her to back off even more.
"Fifteen dollars is plenty," I uttered in the line at Best Buy, a store I usually avoid, its antiseptic boxiness always leaving me feeling empty.
Of course she made it twenty. She is conscientious that way. Occasionally too concerned with the reactions of others to do what is plenty and practical.
We are different in that way, my daughter and me. But my blood runs through her--good or otherwise--and I know that she will always feel a bit removed from the forced nature of such events.
Yes, Jesus is the reason for the season, although I suspect he'd be calling for do-overs, if he could. Besides, I have trouble focusing on the Godly this time of year, what with all the 24-hour music stations and too-bright LED lights. And, at times, I find myself resistant to participate, my hand having grown tired of holding iced cookies.
I do not wish to impart my resistance upon these young children whose bodies hold my DNA. I know that I should encourage them to dive in, just say 'yes,' indulge themselves a bit.
But there is that ancient hum I cannot ignore, the one that vibrates in my very legs. And it tells me--and my children, I suspect--to fight mightily for a stripped-down, straightforward existence, a practical and quiet life in which we can just sit a bit and be, no frills or ornaments upon us.
It is there, in the sitting and the slow breathing, where the ancient stories can be heard, the voice but a whisper.
I'm with you, Jane!
ReplyDeleteProbably the Hippy Cliffs that we share, Melodee, but I'm glad to have you on my side!
ReplyDeleteI'm sitting here in the quiet of my living room; post kids and grandkids, just taking time to reflect and read. I happened onto your blog. I'd like to say I'm with you, too, at least in theory. Truth be told I am one who loves to give. My best gift is to find just the right gift for my loved ones and watch their excitement as they open it. I think there is room for both of us. I could also do without the 24 hour music they call "christmas" ( lower case on purpose because there is not much godly about it) and the too bright LED lights. I'd rather have the light in my granddaughters' eyes. PS - my youngest daughter got engaged on the Hippie Cliffs. I'm fairly certain some tresspassing was involved.
ReplyDeleteSabrina--it is hard to beat the joy of giving a perfect gift! The odds typically aren't in my favor, that's all! There is, indeed, room for both schools of thought. I think that's why I love buying stocking stuffers--cheap, fun, fairly well-fit gifts that generally generate a smile or two. That said, I also love the post-Christmas time, when things quiet down and we get to just be slow for awhile. Thanks for your thoughts! AND for letting me know where your daughter got engaged--a hoot!
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