Last Friday night I celebrated the winter solstice. There was a lot more to it than I put down in words, but there’s nothing wrong with that. My wife was thoroughly supportive and made sure I could do whatever I wanted. Today the tables turned, and i almost blew it.
What we did was go to the storage unit to exchange some of my wife’s warm weather clothes for heavy winter coats, and to extract the Christmas boxes. I was fine with that, although I felt a foreshadowing of confrontation. I’d actually already done some decorating, putting up a few Christmas lights in places around the house in my odd little way, arranging Guadalupana candles on the mantel, hanging up some Mexican Christmas party flags, that kind of thing. I even bought a few presents. But when we got home with the box, and things started coming out, I had to get a grip on myself and watch out.
For one thing, I’d just busted my ass deep-cleaning most of the house right back to the bare walls, and I had an immediate reaction to the clutter. I kept that to myself, though, and then she pulled out the Christmas stockings. Someone had sewn them for us years ago, and she usually got them out each year, although we never stuck presents in them. This time, however, they bugged me, and I opined how I wouldn’t really mind if we didn’t hang them this year.
“I love them. They remind me of H___ and B_____,” she said.
As I have been reborn, I did not reply, “Exactly!” Moreover, I told her she could hang them wherever she wanted, and while she was making herself a cup of tea in the kitchen, I put them up myself.
“Perfect!” she exclaimed.
Yes, but I also get to do this!
Not that I necessarily mind being reminded of H___ and B____, but I probably wouldn’t choose to be. They’re dear old friends who’ve gone through raging ups and downs with love, health, money, and all the rest, meaning they’ve grown and changed at least as much as we have since the last time we met, and how much would we have in common after 20 years (I’m so stupid — maybe a LOT, how would I know without trying)? It’s the “me” of 20-25 years ago I don’t want to be reminded of, of course. But be that as it may, I hung the stockings, and God bless H___ and B____. We did have some awfully good times, including some maximum high craziness I’ll never forget. Jesus! (Okay, fine, put up the stockings. Oh right, I did.)
But more memory-soaked pieces soon emerged from the cardboard cartons, arghh. It felt like Christmas were pulling me down, crushing the life out of me. I kept quiet, but she noticed and wondered if I was turning dangerous. She was right, so of course I said I was fine. I also kept recklessly going and committed the truth.
“You know,” I averred, “sometimes I wouldn’t mind if these boxes all burned up, so we could get NEW stuff of our own!”
Unaccountably, this came out lightly, without rancor, and no offense was taken. How did I manage that?!? Then she said we could get new things and add them to the collection. Uh-oh. This had skull and crossbones ALL over it, and I changed the subject. But I’d gotten away with being myself. Somehow I’d told the truth without pushing any buttons. Cool! I felt better. Calmer.
Full moon through the bedroom window
I thought about the collective Christmas monster and wondered why the hell this was such a big stupid issue with me. I felt hounded by zealots and the culture itself. GET OFF ME! How do you get unstuck from a culture? I was already off the reservation, so what was the problem? Exactly: WHAT WAS THE PROBLEM? Egad! All of a sudden, it hit me: there wasn’t any. I’d celebrated the solstice. I realized I was a pagan and didn’t have to hide it any more. That was the real me, and I’d always been that way: it could no more be rubbed out than the nose on my face. What’s more, my wife encouraged me in my orientation and had handled it with love and respect — all I had to do was the same.
If I had guests from Tibet who rang gongs and chanted all night, or if I were hosting a voodoo delegation and someone needed to kill a chicken, would I object? Well, sure, but in a perfect world, no.
So here I am in a house festooned with Christmas doodads. It’s a celebration that means a lot to my sweetie, so let it roll. I will revel in her self-expression and join in where appropriate. That last CD didn’t sound half bad, either, 16th century carols with reed instruments that sounded like duck calls. There were lots of drums, too, and a primitive bagpipe. It made me want to march around the room.
Okay, on with the show.
(Quack-quack, boom-boom, ho-ho-ho, and a good night to you all.)
Related posts:
{ 1 comment… read it below or add one }
A very insightful entry that resonates with MY sweetie! You two could be birth-separated twins WRT your “passion” for Christmas.
Hope you’re having a good, if somewhat snowbound, holiday in all it various stripes!
J