Tonight, I turned on jazz and cooked a hearty winter soup under the dim glow of the Christmas lights lining out cupboards. Then I laid out ornaments and decorated the Christmas tree, then folded laundry, and now I just finished making my bed.
The only thing missing is a cup of warm cider. But that’s OK. (Maybe microwaving Mott’s apple juice will be the same?)
My roommate is gone (she’s on a date), so I spent the evening on my own. In fact, I only decorated the tree to surprise her when she gets back. But I’m getting off track now. I was thinking while doing all this that wow, this feels like the holidays now. I haven’t felt this warm, cozy Christmastime feeling in forever. I’ve felt it vaguely, but it was always mixed with other vague pangs, like fear, uncertainty, denial — all of which I worked overtime to suppress, and therefore the feeling came muted in the end, like a nice chocolate cake in saran wrap that you are only allowed to gaze at from 5 feet away.
So now, I feel like the plastic is off. And the difference is as subtle as a whiff of chocolate. This is Christmas, this is life. It’s making soups, listening to music, spending evenings doing nothing extraordinary but small, comfortable tasks that all add up into one warm picture.
I like it. And I’m thankful.