Posts made in December, 2009
The Meaning of Christmas
I’ve been thinking a lot about this over the last few days.
The truth is, I’m not really sure what Christmas DOES mean any more. Or at least, I don’t know what it means to me. And it’s partly why I’m left feeling a little empty about the whole thing this year.
On one level this is not big news – those of you that know me will know that I’m not a believer in the ‘real’ meaning of Christmas, seeing the Christian story as just one of many meanings that has been ascribed to this festival over the centuries. Partly that’s why I normally love Christmas so much, why I love humanity so much: our ability to invest our lives, our culture, our daily frames of reference with so much meaning, to fill them with so much spiritual significance. What I’ve never quite decided is whether there is an ultimate ‘meaning’, a source from which all these spiritual interpretations have evolved from. It’s a question I’ll probably be asking for the rest of my life, the answer, as I perceive it to be, endlessly changing as I myself change and grow. But that’s ok. For me asking the question is the important part.
Coming to this personal spiritual philosophy after a long time has been immensely freeing, but it has it’s drawbacks too. It means I find it hard to slot into some kind of pre-packaged interpretation of situations, philosophies and celebrations. It forces me to question myself and my world view constantly which is exhausting, and sometimes I can see the temptation of donning the mantle of a religion with their ready-made set of stories and meanings to slot your life into. It must be nice, comforting.
My memories of childhood Christmases were like that. A strange mix of the usual childhood perceptions of magic and Santa, and the religious significance that was a natural to me as breathing, being brought up as I had firmly (and very much lovingly) in the arms of the church. There was no question, Christmas was what it was. It was tangible to me. And, of course, wonderfully special – I wouldn’t swap those early experiences of advent, nativity plays, Christingle services, midnight mass, and all the rest, for anything in the world. It taught me to see the spiritual in things; that my life could be marked by times filled with meaning and celebration.
As I’ve got older and left behind my faith along with my childhood, Christmas began to take on new significances for me. I began to celebrate the seasonal aspects more, wriggling my spiritual roots down a bit deeper and longer ago, when it was once a time to mark the darkest time of the year at the Solstice and a celebration of returning light – a time for hunkering down with your family, enjoying good food and good conversation, and looking forward to the year ahead. I loved this, it felt primal and sacred. And, along with celebrating similar festivals at other times of the year, made me feel connected and in tune with the cycles of my life.
But then Kai came along. And life became less about long introspective walks, or long evenings pouring over spiritual texts and philosophical points of view. A deep spirituality became a luxury I didn’t have time for, given that I’ve been up to my ears in nappies, and baby wrangling, and wondering how to get poo out of the carpet. Again, that was ok. It was just the way life was for now. Luckily no religion means no guilt when ‘real’ life takes over for a while! I was forced to evolve a more pragmatic spirituality, finding meaning more in my family life than in things ‘outside’.
So after a year of little sleep, much laughter but much stress too I find myself at Christmas once more.
I am a different person to the girl three Christmases ago who still invested it with so much personal spiritual significance. A different person to the girl two Christmases ago who was too full of announcing her pregnancy and showing off her scan pictures to really give it much of a thought. And a different person, even, to the girl of last Christmas, a new and overwhelmed mum who was coping with Kai at the peak of awful sleeplessness, and sick all through Christmas and New Year to boot.
There hasn’t been enough time or energy for me to think about what Christmas means this year. And yet here it is. And I haven’t a clue how to feel about it.
I think I’m going to have to chalk this one down to a transition Christmas. It comes at a time when I’m not even sure who I am any more, let alone know how I might fit into a bigger picture. I feel on the edge of a huge, unknown territory, having so recently discovered my writing and that side to myself, only just starting to take steps in a new journey of self discovery and with no real clue where I am headed. It’s going to have to be a time of rest, or re-grouping, of forgetting the bigger worries and question in the smaller joy of watching Kai open his presents and create his own early meanings of what this time is all about.
Yes, perhaps this one is just about Kai. About filling his time with love and fun and surprises, close in the safety and devotion of his family.
I’m putting myself on the back burner for a while. And we’ll see what the New Year brings.
So. If you’ve got to the end of this very long post then thank you for listening. But it’s your turn now, cause I really , REALLY want to know. What does Christmas mean to you this year?
Is it the same as it’s always meant to you? Or has it changed for you too?
Read MoreMake friends, make friends, never ever break friends
I am curled in a ball on the sofa, wrapped in a blanket, my face turned away from you, my eyes tight shut against the glare of the artificial light of our early morning.
Vague sounds of the television and your quiet play and chatter filter through but don’t penetrate past the armour I have so carefully applied this morning. You are just noise to me. I wish you weren’t here.
I wish I wasn’t here.
I feel bruised. My body pinched, pulled, rearranged. A night of being your bed, comforter, punching bag, drinks dispenser, toy, as you worked through your rage and despair and frustration and all of the other things that seem to plague your nights. I wonder at what point last night did I finally shut down? At what point did I stop hearing the crying and just switch off to the writhing, grasping, angry little body in my arms. At what point did you stop being my baby and become something I had to endure? It was before exhaustion took you, finally, that much I know. Long before. Your stamina long eclipsing mine. My head hitting the pillow numb and empty.
I feel nothing now. My body moving on auto-pilot as I was woken from a sleep only just begun. I am cold, my skin prickling, as if the emotional drainage of the night has taken all my body heat with it. I shake, I shiver, wrapped in my cocoon and in darkness.
And yet even now, in my dark place, the mother synapses fire again. Ears on alert for sounds of distress and need. I hate that the instinct is so strong, that even when I want to disengage it holds me. Even now blissful nothingness is beyond my grasp, however much I wish for it, as anger burns hot in my chest. Dull but there, keeping me from icing up completely. I suppose I should be grateful for it. Grateful for feeling something. Because what kind of mother feels nothing?
Wrapped in shadow I am concious of time passing. All too soon the sounds of contented occupation begin to morph to sighs and little murmurs of annoyance. It is inevitable.
And then.
Movement. A shuffle. Warm fingers feeling there way beneath my covers to find my face, probing but gentle, searching for a connection and a response.
“Mama”
I am defrosting. The guilt is creeping back now. A familiar friend. Guilt that I seem unable to perform such a basic a function as enduring your need for me. Guilt at my weakness, at my selfishness, at my inadequate limits. Guilt that I am not enough, never enough for you. Guilt that I could ever wish you far away.
Turning, I pull you up and under, your body settling into my shape. I cannot yet look at you but your eager grin hovers an inch from my face in the half-light, your breath heavy and sweet. You wriggle your way through my defences, seeking out my bruises and my hurts with gentle hands, your fingers pushing their way through my hair to stroke and sooth and pat: movements learnt from being their recipient so many times.
You lie still for only a moment, but it is long enough for me to feel a rush of love so strong and deep it takes my breath, releasing in one low, shaking sob, that makes my body move and throw off the cover to let in the bright light of the dawn, here at last.
And I hold you close to me, breathing in your smell and your warmth and your life as the long night drips off me, and you begin to chatter with your nonsense words, telling me of your plans, about the red car that just drove past and that the dog from next door is awake and barking hello, and how you’d really like some breakfast please.
I take your hands in mine and plant a kiss on each small palm and look up at you to smile. Breakfast. Yes.
Read MoreChristmas Break
In case you were at all worried that I had suffered some sort of nervous breakdown over the weekend and had been whizzed away to a padded room sans Wi-Fi, I’m here to reassure you: I’m fine. The being whizzed away part was true, although there were fewer men-in-white coats and electric shock treatment and more obese ducks and sitting around drinking tea watching the sunset. Either way, it was good therapy. Dad’s off to China so this weekend marked our family’s pre-Christmas gathering at a beautiful cottage nestled by the canal. The weather was gorgeous, the company witty and entertaining (well, I was anyway), the Christmas tree was only slightly crap looking. There was food, there was cheesy Christmas music, there were long walks in frost. It was fab.
Now I’m home and trying very hard to fight off all the worries that I had thought I’d left behind.
I have a ton of stuff to do before the end of the month. Cleaning is one. Pulling 2,500 words of literary brilliance out my ass is another. Finding a way to survive financially through the toughest two months of the year is pretty high up there too. Oh yeah, and it’s Christmas isn’t it. Which means I should probably write some cards or something.
Apologies if you’ve arrived looking for the Writing Workshop prompts but I’ve decided to close up shop till the New Year. There will still be blogging and twittering, but as-and-when, in between all the other stuff with no added pressure of workshop deadline’s type blogging and twittering.
There is good news though: if you’re REALLY stuck for inspiration this week then you are very welcome to email or tweet me and I will provide you with your very own, customised, one-of-a-kind writing prompt. Call it a Christmas present.
In the meantime, if you fancy looking at some beautiful scenery and some ducks and stuff then click here to be magically transported to the rest of my weekend snaps.
And because this post seems to have a slightly (and unintentionally) melancholy edge, I’m going to finish on a high note. Apologies if you’ve seen these already but it is TOO cute not to share…
Read MoreMood Swings
I’m a bit up and down at the moment. I’m not sure why.
Some of it is just me I think. I’ve always blown a bit hot and cold and never been very good at concealing my emotions. If I’m happy you could probably solve the world’s energy crisis by running a power lead off my manic energy. But if I’m upset, or pissed off? Man alive, are you going to know about it. The Hadron Collider holds nothing like my potential for causing an accidental Universal Apocalypse. Most days I like this, it makes life more interesting. It makes ME more interesting.
But lately I seem to have been even more temperamental, with the emphasis on mental that is. And what’s frustrating me is that my ‘ups’ are being far overshadowed by my ‘downs’, with the down days triggered by more and more meaningless, pathetic incidents. An unkind word, perhaps not even meant for me but taken that way, can leave me wallowing for hours. I am more and more easily hurt, offended, sensitive and buffeted by the energy and comments of other people.
Is it the no sleep thing? Is the months of sleep deprivation finally making a dent in my mental health? Things are better, yes, but one good night is offset by about ten bad and I’m still managing on about 4-5 hours a night, 6-7 on a really good night.
Or is it the writing? More and more I’m finding I need to open myself emotionally, not only to find the right words to express what I’m trying to say, but to help me perceive the world in a way that is interesting, evocative and engaging. And by ‘opening’ myself to that process I fall in love with it, care about it, obsess about it in a way I’m not sure is always healthy and leaves me vulnerable to feeling deflated and low in confidence.
Or is it, (and I hate this excuse but it’s a valid one), hormones. Kai is breastfeeding less, my prolactin levels have probably dropped through the floor, and other hormones seem to be reinstating their influence as evidenced by the visit of an old friend this week who has been absent since I fell pregnant (yes, that was a euphemism, to spare my male readers some embarrassment).
What ever it is, I don’t like it. I feel out of balance and out of control.
Would love to hear if anyone else struggles with this problem (although you men folk are excused from the last point). How do you balance yourself emotionally? What keeps you feeling sane?
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