I may have realized last night, in the middle of it, another night of bad sleeps, that we (and I mean all of us) put a lot of responsibility on to the shoulders of Christmas. We want Christmas to solve world hunger and war. We want Christmas to have the miracle of neighbours getting along and religions to blend and mesh. We want the empty parts of us to fill with all the things that we've been longing for our whole lives. We wait, with breath held a little, for everything to change because .... afterall, it is Christmas.
I'm the most guilty of everyone I know. I wait with my eyes squeezed shut for the magic to find me that I remember from when I was little, when life was perfect without question, when I didn't worry and even know that my mother didn't really like me all that much, when I didn't worry if I was perfect or not, because children just accept what is. I crawled under the Christmas tree in the dark, shifting the parcels off to the side and listened to Perry Como croon about the night before Christmas and the magic of it all descended right on to my skin where I could feel it soak in and fill my heart with that wonderful sense that all is right with the world even though I knew it wasn't. Christmas was like a sedative that smoothed back my hair and made me pray for peace, not toys or candy or surprises, just peace.
I want my children to not care what is under the tree, not care about what I can't buy them, not care where I have come up short as a mother and a human being. I want them to just be glad that we have this moment, this second in time when we are all together and the memory of that will be the glue for the rest of the year, will be the magic that fills some of those empty days that undoubtedly will come.
I want the magic of Christmas to make up for all the human-ness of the world, the mistakes, the cruelty, the poverty, the imbalance of life. But most of all, I want the magic of Christmas to confirm to each soul I love (including mine) that we are all incredibly special just the way we are.
Merry Christmas. I think if I move my little tiny tree upstairs to the livingroom that Christmas magic will happen.
by W A Stewart, December 21, 2009
Monday, December 21, 2009
Thursday, December 10, 2009
CHRISTMAS CRANKINESS
That's the short title.
The long title is SELF-DIAGNOSIS OF THE WARNING SIGNS AND SYMPTOMS OF CHRISTMAS CRANKINESS.
I was yelling at the television this morning and I thought perhaps, after some introspection, that I may be suffering from Christmas crankiness. The technical term is bummer-syndrome. There may be some other words that define the lack of ho-ho-ho, but suffice to say the symptoms are not always obvious.
I thought in the spirit of giving I would share my wisdom with you. So, if you have any of the following symptoms you have bummer-syndrome.
1. You are extremely offended when you see a commercial about Broadway's new release of The Wizard of Oz. You begin hollering at the television about the fact that the original came out 70 years ago and what happened to originality and that this Dorothy is a fraud and Judy Garland would roll over in her grave. All what seems like a perfectly normal reaction.
2. You are so angered by the above that you want to get off the couch and kick the cat, except you don't have a cat and getting off the couch seems like excessive exercise.
3. You start making a list of the worst Christmas parties you ever attended and you get stuck after the first entry. 1983. Pickle Lake. Host is in kitchen with pals. Flatulence and matches are involved and cheering the official song of The Blue Flame Club. As if that's not bad enough you were (I repeat, were) married to the host.
4. You've picked your snowman up and returned him to his position on the front steps for the last time. You are in the basement searching for the chainsaw. After pulling the chord for forty-seven times you give up and get a hammer and turn your snowman into kindling even though he's been your favourite decoration for several decades. Not any more.
There are a few others and variations of the above do occur, but I'll stop there. I was just outside in the blizzard looking for the end of my driveway. I had tied a rope around my waist with the other end tied to the backdoor in the name of safety. A man and his dog came along. The dog stopped to pee on my shovel.
"Are you ready for Christmas?" the man asked in a cheery voice.
"You bet," I answered. "Going to be the best Christmas ever."
I think that may be the biggest clue. My only remedy? Resort to alcohol or hibernation.
by W A Stewart December 10, 2009
The long title is SELF-DIAGNOSIS OF THE WARNING SIGNS AND SYMPTOMS OF CHRISTMAS CRANKINESS.
I was yelling at the television this morning and I thought perhaps, after some introspection, that I may be suffering from Christmas crankiness. The technical term is bummer-syndrome. There may be some other words that define the lack of ho-ho-ho, but suffice to say the symptoms are not always obvious.
I thought in the spirit of giving I would share my wisdom with you. So, if you have any of the following symptoms you have bummer-syndrome.
1. You are extremely offended when you see a commercial about Broadway's new release of The Wizard of Oz. You begin hollering at the television about the fact that the original came out 70 years ago and what happened to originality and that this Dorothy is a fraud and Judy Garland would roll over in her grave. All what seems like a perfectly normal reaction.
2. You are so angered by the above that you want to get off the couch and kick the cat, except you don't have a cat and getting off the couch seems like excessive exercise.
3. You start making a list of the worst Christmas parties you ever attended and you get stuck after the first entry. 1983. Pickle Lake. Host is in kitchen with pals. Flatulence and matches are involved and cheering the official song of The Blue Flame Club. As if that's not bad enough you were (I repeat, were) married to the host.
4. You've picked your snowman up and returned him to his position on the front steps for the last time. You are in the basement searching for the chainsaw. After pulling the chord for forty-seven times you give up and get a hammer and turn your snowman into kindling even though he's been your favourite decoration for several decades. Not any more.
There are a few others and variations of the above do occur, but I'll stop there. I was just outside in the blizzard looking for the end of my driveway. I had tied a rope around my waist with the other end tied to the backdoor in the name of safety. A man and his dog came along. The dog stopped to pee on my shovel.
"Are you ready for Christmas?" the man asked in a cheery voice.
"You bet," I answered. "Going to be the best Christmas ever."
I think that may be the biggest clue. My only remedy? Resort to alcohol or hibernation.
by W A Stewart December 10, 2009
Monday, December 7, 2009
BREASTS
Finding myself standing in the supermarket in only my underpants, my breasts exposed, was shocking, inappropriate, inconvenient at best. I tried to act nonchalant as if this was ordinary in the hopes I would be less conspicuous. I tried to steady my breathing, crossed my arms across my chest to hide the flesh of my breasts beneath my arms. At least that's how the dream went.
I wakened relieved, able to exhale with a tremendous gust, happy that I was suitably attired in a nightgown, tucked safely in my bed, a long distance from the supermarket. I thought of my breasts as I waited for sleep to pull at me again.
Breasts may be the one single thing that makes me aware of my woman-ness. Not in a sexual porn star way, but breasts are a measure of me. They are the signal of most changes in a woman's body.
Born without breasts, all too often we die without them. The changes recorded in our breasts become the measure of our pasing, proof we have indeed made the journey. At birth, we are rather homogenous from the waist up, gender non-specific so to speak. We are able to collide and bump into one another with little regard for femininity or masculinity. The path alters though, all too soon, and we come to a fork in the road and life changes.
Our breasts begin as meaty thickness. The muscle on our chest is more defined now. Greater skills have been acquired as we stretch beyond jumping rope and rocking baby dolls and our experiences, more diverse, have added to the muscle there. Our chest almost whispers of womanhood but only almost for there still lingers an innocent notion of gender-less.
Almost over night, the tissue in our breasts spring to life in a quick determined announcement, a loud voice really. "I am a girl!" Our breasts are firm, speak for themselves, bold, want to be seen, willing to show off. They go where we go without hesitation, leading never following. Sometimes they frighten our mothers who insist we cover them more adequately and sometimes they alarm our fathers who all too often look away.
Breasts throb just before we have our period as though a warning sent to have us prepare. They ache and tighten when we become pregnant, often the very first sign. When we diet, breats are the parts of our body that cheer us on, usually the first to shed unnecessary fat.
Creation comes filled with change, emotion. The mere hint of pregnancy and the shift is immediate. Our breasts enlarge and take on a song of nourishment. They demand us to pay heed to their purpose rather than their playfulness. They are tender, needing care. When we first hold our infant there, the pain gives way to relief and we see what was intended. The smooth skin stretching over our breasts reveals the veins that keep them nourished. Any baby's voice releases the dam and the flood is powerful, we can feel it surging to our toes. Our breasts are engorged for a time, as we tentatively hold this new child, a bit unsure, uncertain, but as we become competent and comfortable the tissue softens, accepting the challenge.
The years go by and our breasts remain fairly static, change is minimal, not easily detected. Then we discover our breasts have softened just as we have, accepting the bumps and disappointments in our journey along with the celebrations and hurrahs. They take a position somewhat lower, less bold, a little quieter and the line from our underarm is a smooth gentle slope. They are restful, not needing much in the way of frolic, not wanting to stand up and be noticed, but they comfort us like an old friend and we hope we never have to part, hope cancer does't take that which tells our story, that which remembers who we were and knows the road we travelled.
by W A Stewart, December 7, 2009
I wakened relieved, able to exhale with a tremendous gust, happy that I was suitably attired in a nightgown, tucked safely in my bed, a long distance from the supermarket. I thought of my breasts as I waited for sleep to pull at me again.
Breasts may be the one single thing that makes me aware of my woman-ness. Not in a sexual porn star way, but breasts are a measure of me. They are the signal of most changes in a woman's body.
Born without breasts, all too often we die without them. The changes recorded in our breasts become the measure of our pasing, proof we have indeed made the journey. At birth, we are rather homogenous from the waist up, gender non-specific so to speak. We are able to collide and bump into one another with little regard for femininity or masculinity. The path alters though, all too soon, and we come to a fork in the road and life changes.
Our breasts begin as meaty thickness. The muscle on our chest is more defined now. Greater skills have been acquired as we stretch beyond jumping rope and rocking baby dolls and our experiences, more diverse, have added to the muscle there. Our chest almost whispers of womanhood but only almost for there still lingers an innocent notion of gender-less.
Almost over night, the tissue in our breasts spring to life in a quick determined announcement, a loud voice really. "I am a girl!" Our breasts are firm, speak for themselves, bold, want to be seen, willing to show off. They go where we go without hesitation, leading never following. Sometimes they frighten our mothers who insist we cover them more adequately and sometimes they alarm our fathers who all too often look away.
Breasts throb just before we have our period as though a warning sent to have us prepare. They ache and tighten when we become pregnant, often the very first sign. When we diet, breats are the parts of our body that cheer us on, usually the first to shed unnecessary fat.
Creation comes filled with change, emotion. The mere hint of pregnancy and the shift is immediate. Our breasts enlarge and take on a song of nourishment. They demand us to pay heed to their purpose rather than their playfulness. They are tender, needing care. When we first hold our infant there, the pain gives way to relief and we see what was intended. The smooth skin stretching over our breasts reveals the veins that keep them nourished. Any baby's voice releases the dam and the flood is powerful, we can feel it surging to our toes. Our breasts are engorged for a time, as we tentatively hold this new child, a bit unsure, uncertain, but as we become competent and comfortable the tissue softens, accepting the challenge.
The years go by and our breasts remain fairly static, change is minimal, not easily detected. Then we discover our breasts have softened just as we have, accepting the bumps and disappointments in our journey along with the celebrations and hurrahs. They take a position somewhat lower, less bold, a little quieter and the line from our underarm is a smooth gentle slope. They are restful, not needing much in the way of frolic, not wanting to stand up and be noticed, but they comfort us like an old friend and we hope we never have to part, hope cancer does't take that which tells our story, that which remembers who we were and knows the road we travelled.
by W A Stewart, December 7, 2009
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