Sometimes it’s enough to be inside on a cold and snowy night and know the world outside is silent and peaceful.
Sometimes it’s nice not to worry about anything beyond the screen in front of me and the characters in my head.
Sometimes the world I create on the page makes so much more sense, and is so much easier, than the real world in which I live.
Sometimes I have to write because nothing else will quiet the muse… or the demons.
I have that melancholy feeling I often get at this time of the year. Holiday blues, I guess. The holidays always remind me of the family I don’t have. At this point in my life, I’ve stopped longing for the kind of close-knit family some of my friends take for granted. There comes a time when you have to let go and accept that some things will never be what you’d like them to be. Still, it’s hard to remind myself of that when this time of year seems to be all about family.
It has started to snow-- probably the last snowfall of the year (and lousy timing, at that)-- and I’m alone and tired and feeling chilled to the bone. It’s a combination that makes for sad thoughts.
One more reason for me to look forward to January-- eleven months to convince myself that family is overrated before another holiday season comes along to remind me otherwise.
Fifteen days until Christmas.
I do not have a Christmas tree (and I’m debating the wisdom of getting a real tree since we have Grace now-- who probably should have been named Tornado).
The only Christmas cards I have written have been in response to the cards I’ve received (I lack Christmas spirit, not manners).
The only baking I’ve done has been two double batches of chocolate chip cookies-- one during girl-bonding time with Sheri, the other for a Navy party tomorrow.
My Christmas shopping isn’t finished, but has been fairly stress-free so far. No searching for rare and unusual (and expensive) gifts or putting together themed, multi-part gifts. That’s not to say I’ve been shopping at the Dollar Tree; my favorite part of this holiday has always been choosing thoughtful gifts for the people I care about. It’s just that this year I’m doing it reasonably instead of over-the-top. Hopefully no one will be disappointed.
I have been married for fourteen years and this is the first year I haven’t felt the urge to do everything-- and do it perfectly. I feel a little… guilty, I guess. I’m supposed to do it all and do it perfectly, aren’t I? I have always thought so. This year, for whatever reason, I’m rebelling. I’m not depressed, I’m not melancholy, I’m not feeling Scrooge-like (in fact, I’m feeling surprisingly giving, but in a altruistic, non-materialistic way). I’m just slowing down and listening to my heart instead of filling this month with excess and insanity and the need to be perfect.
Maybe this is what Christmas is supposed to feel like.
I seem to be at a loss for words the past couple of days, but Amy‘s discussion of poetry has caught my eye. Last night I suggested one of my favorite Pablo Neruda poems for her to discuss. I had forgotten how much I like him. Sad, melancholy, full of passion-- I really love his poetry. I spent some time last night reading my favorites and found some others I hadn’t read before, which inspired me to add this collection to my wish list.
Since I seem to be suffering from writer’s block, I’ll share two of my favorite Neruda poems. The first is the one I recommended to Amy (and if you enjoy poetry, I highly recommend dropping by her blog-- she discusses it far more eloquently than I ever could) and the second is a sonnet, one of my favorite poetry forms. Both are about unconditional love and bittersweet longing. Maybe tomorrow I’ll throw in a naughty limerick to balance out the sap. Heh.
Enjoy.
Here I Love You
Here I love you.
In the dark pines the wind disentangles itself.
The moon glows like phosphorous on the vagrant waters.
Days, all one kind, go chasing each other.
The snow unfurls in dancing figures.
A silver gull slips down from the west.
Sometimes a sail. High, high stars.
Oh the black cross of a ship.
Alone.
Sometimes I get up early and even my soul is wet.
Far away the sea sounds and resounds.
This is a port.
Here I love you.
Here I love you and the horizon hides you in vain.
I love you still among these cold things.
Sometimes my kisses go on those heavy vessels
that cross the sea towards no arrival.
I see myself forgotten like those old anchors.
The piers sadden when the afternoon moors there.
My life grows tired, hungry to no purpose.
I love what I do not have. You are so far.
My loathing wrestles with the slow twilights.
But night comes and starts to sing to me.
The moon turns its clockwork dream.
The biggest stars look at me with your eyes.
And as I love you, the pines in the wind
want to sing your name with their leaves of wire.
Sonnet XVII (I do not love you...)
I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.
I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.
I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way
than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.
There is no real reason for it, because I still have dozens of things to do and I haven’t accomplished a single one of them yet today, but I’m feeling a very cozy and welcome feeling of contentment right now. Sigh… if only it would last.
Why is it so difficult to turn down all the noise in my brain and focus on what’s important, what matters to me? I let myself get so distracted by the details of life, I sometimes forget that I don’t have to get caught up in all the craziness and minutiae-- especially during this season. I can choose not to be drawn into the drama. I need to remind myself of that. Often.
I am, and have always been, too empathetic for my own good. No matter what my mood or state of mind, I can easily be affected by someone else’s emotions. It doesn’t even have to be someone close to me, although that definitely magnifies it. The irony is, I’m often left feeling sad or angry or hurt long after the person who has tapped into my empathy has moved on. It’s bad enough to let myself wallow in my own unhappiness for too long, I really don’t need to hold on to someone else’s negative energy.
I don’t think being empathetic makes me any better a person than someone who goes blithely through life unscathed by the emotions of other people. In fact, it makes me emotionally unpredictable (and unstable?) sometimes. Which is probably why I enjoy times like now-- this solitary contentment-- so much.
It’s only a matter of time before something comes along and fucks it up.
What’s it all about?
Life. Love. Writing. Editing. Sex. Books. Romance. Movies. Friendship. Photography. Teaching. Coffee. (Lots of coffee.) Travel. Feminism. Academia. Insomnia. Memories. Experiences. Rants. Raves. Reviews. Babies. Pregnancy. Motherhood. Insanity. Musings of an insomniac writer. Want to know more?
