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| Stones in my garden. |
The holidays aren't easy for me.
I tried to write about it. Yesterday. I sat here for an hour rummaging through drawers of words that refused to fit together. I picked out and tossed back. I mulled in silence (this is becoming a habit). I stared at the pale desert through the window frame above my beat up blue desk.
For the first time in five weeks I limped to the studio and stopped by the Buddha garden, tilting on crutches to place a pink rock on top of a dove gray stone. If I was religious, I wondered, would this be easier? If I had faith- if I believed in an invisible father figure who would somehow comfort me with broken bread promises of purpose and protection? Or an ancient mother goddess opening her earthy arms to cradle me in her seasonal wisdom? Would I be better able to cope with the stirrings of loss and anger and self loathing that the gloss and glitz of the annual Christmas energy inevitably evokes if I simply surrendered to the collective agreement that god is in charge and every small and deep and widespread bit of suffering happens "for a reason"?
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