Seriously, if you figure out the secret, do let me know.
I’m sitting here wondering when the hell it suddenly became December 17, 2009, a mere eight (eight!!) days away from Christmas, and I’ve only bought one (count ‘em, ONE) gift. Actually, I should amend that by saying that B. bought the gift, but since he’s my husband I get to include myself in the note card attached to the gift. Otherwise, if we’re talking about gifts I purchased myself, well, I’m going on 0-15 or so.
My new job (which is no longer my job as of the end of this month, but more on that when I’m officially no longer with the company) has kept me so busy about 16 hours of the day, everyday of the week, that it’s all I can do to merely shower and slap on some sunscreen and deodorant. Now, however, with the impending Last Day at the Office, I’m finding more time to breathe, bake and maybe even do some Christmas shopping. (Uhm, when’s the last day I can buy something on Amazon.ca and have it still arrive on time for Christmas Day in Vancouver?)
I’ve been thinking a lot — a lot — lately about ambition and dreams and sacrifice, and I’ve come to the conclusion (and certainly not for the last time) that there’s worthy ambition, and then there’s misguided ambition. I’ve suffered a lot the last few years from the latter, not realizing that what I really was looking f
or was the former. I have a 400-plus-page novel that’s pitiful in its pleas for me to finish it, not to mention a cranky old body that’s really good at telling me when I’ve gone off course again. It reared its cute little head last week when it felled me into a four-day fatigue fest that really took the wind out of me. It reminded me yet again that I’ve been forgetting my true path, the one I’ve been telling myself for at least eight years I should be on, the one I studiously ignore when I allow the pointless trivia of daily life to take over my brain.
So I’m trying to come back. I’ve dusted off my trusty Swiss Army compass and carefully adjusted it to point to true north once again. When you’re in your early 20s and trying to find your way, it’s so easy to veer off in the wrong direction, but it’s a completely forgivable sin. When you’re 37-going-on-38, though? Meh. Not so much.
The first item on the agenda is to get my darn Christmas decorations up and sparkling. B. knew before I did that my life was starting to spin out of control again when he realized that we weren’t putting up decorations early this year — the unmistakable sign that I’ve lost track of where I was going. I’m the Christmas Girl, after all, the one who plays holiday songs on her computer the minute the clock strikes twelve the day after Thanksgiving. The one who would bankrupt her family just to buy one more set of twinkling ornaments. The one who has memorized the lyrics to probably about forty Christmas songs, and counting. “Do They Know It’s Christmas After All?” Please. That’s amateur.
That’s one of the reasons why I started this blog, after all. Actually, come to think of it, I think I inaugurated this blog not too long after the 2006 Christmas season. The dark, cold nights and days of winter are always an ideal time to rethink one’s life and dig around for some fresh motivation. I remember wanting to remain true to my soul, to my dreams, to myself. It’s not about the makeup or the leek soup or the Chanel clothes or Hermes Birkin — although they’re all on my wish list! — but about living a creative, authentic and inspired life.
So it’s with a hot cup of delicious cafe au lait in my hand that I reboot, refresh and start over. We Americans are always such fanatics about personal transformation and self-growth. I don’t necessarily want to transform or grow anything (other than my hair, please God). I just want to go back to where I began.
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It’s a struggle: Commerce versus art, outer versus inner, Baby Jesus versus Wal-Mart. Nat King Cole helps. So does reading Capote’s “A Christmas Memory.” Decorate that tree in twinkles and keep a heart-eye on the night divine. Joyeux Noel, Marjorie.
Dear Ann, I don’t know why, but your comment made me tear up. Maybe I’m PMS-ing? (Recent blood tests confirm that my outbursts of late are not because of pregnancy!) But merci mille, Ann. As a fellow fan of Nat King Cole — I grew up on his songs and sing them all to this day — I appreciate the comment more than I can say.
And by the way, if you haven’t read it yet, Henry van Dyke’s “The Other Wise Man” never fails to inspire and fulfill my longings. Even though I’m a lapsed Catholic/practicing Buddhist, it’s a timeless story that always fills my heart.
Salut,
Marjorie
Merci for the rec. I’m a collapsed Catholic/practicing yogini, myself. Cheers!
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