I just e-mailed the last bit of work off for my Norwegian class. The semester is officially over. And…it feels a bit weird. I know, it was just one class. But the vanishing of that one itsy bitsy class creates a considerable shift in time and focus. Soon I won’t have a free bus pass. And when people ask me “Are you a student?” I can’t say yes. And then they’ll ask “What do you do?” and I’ll say…I’m a barrista? A writer? A wife? Goodness, the simplest questions can be so tricky.

But I tell you, I am heartily looking forward to wading into this new year. I want to fix up my workspace, clean the clutter, and fill it with wonderful things that make me feel at home and ready to write. I want to get a library card, research publishers, and get lost in the kids section. I want to find a new rhythm. I want to learn life more as the non-student-whatever-i-am that I am.

I love this time of year.

After I write something very personal, I get this itch to write something light to distract people from the previous post.  I don’t get the point of this.  I mean, aren’t blogs written to be read?  Isn’t that the point?  If I didn’t want to share myself honestly, I shouldn’t write such intense little things in the first place.  And what’s so scary about sharing myself and my experiences honestly, anyways?  Silly, Lindsey.
I think I just worry that I will worry people or be misunderstood.  I like neither of those things.

I do like teasing Eliot with a lazer pointer, the coming of Christmas, getting a phone call from my sister, big puffy snow, trapping Fiddler on the Roof songs in my brain, and reciting Yeats silently with an Irish accent.  And, sometimes, I like giving into my silly itches as long as I acknowledge them.

Have a good one, friends!

The last week or two has been filled with days messy with tears spilling all over in my chest for no reason other than that is the weight of life, sometimes, when I let myself feel it.  It seems to be a normal December thing for me, as I look through the few entries I have written in past Decembers’ journals, most of them scribbled quickly and filled with sweet obscenity-laden prayers.  I have found myself crying in the morning and crying in the evening and crying myself to sleep with no answer for Adam’s worried “What’s wrong?”s other than “I don’t think it’s all bad, whatever it is.”

My tears seem to have subsided, at least for today.  I don’t think they were bad tears.  I think sometimes the way God works on me is to have me cry things out for a while, a detox of sorts.  And as I said, in the midst of the sadness I’ve been feeling, the long hours of sleep, the occasional nausea, I’ve had the sweetest days I’ve had in quite a while.

I think something I learned these long days is that the world does not revolve around how I am feeling.  How I feel things are has no bearing on what I know is true.  I may feel like a failure, but that’s bullshit.  I may feel hopeless, but that’s a lie.  There is a place for feelings, but their place is not to determine my identity or worth.  My worth is not determined by my happiness.  Nor is my success.
When I’m feeling very very down but know I’m okay, I find it best to tell my feelings to go fuck themselves.  I try to turn my face out and take care of other people instead of worrying about myself.  I’m no saint, and I’m not very good at it, but thinking about how to make peoples’ day’s lighter seems to be a much better and sweeter use of brainspace.  It so good, that exchange of care and love we can have with each other.  It’s easy to become self-contained in this culture, sometimes I forget that.  As for taking car of myself, I pray.  Usually prayers laced with obscenities.

And now, after all of that crying and doing and praying, I feel more solid, selfless, a bit more ready for what’s to come, and a bit more sure very very good things are to come.

So here’s to tears in December!  The best kind I know!  Here’s to crying for no reason and the best reason.  Here’s to falling in this snow now and again, smiling at strangers, and chatting with the UPS man that wheels packages in a cart like Tevye wheels the milk when his horse’s leg is lame.  And hears to you, kind readers.  I enjoy and appreciate your visits here and comments and wish I could send you all one of these fine lussekatter I am nibbling on.  If you live nearby, stop over and I’ll send you home with a couple.  For the rest of you, I’ll leave you with this poem by W. S. Merwin that was introduced to me by a dear friend.

Thanks by W.S. Merwin 

Listen
with the night falling we are saying thank you
we are stopping on the bridges to bow for the railings
we are running out of the glass rooms
with our mouths full of food to look at the sky
and say thank you
we are standing by the water looking out
in different directions.

back from a series of hospitals back from a mugging
after funerals we are saying thank you
after the news of the dead
whether or not we knew them we are saying thank you
looking up from tables we are saying thank you
in a culture up to its chin in shame
living in the stench it has chosen we are saying thank you
over telephones we are saying thank you
in doorways and in the backs of cars and in elevators
remembering wars and the police at the back door
and the beatings on stairs we are saying thank you
in the banks that use us we are saying thank you
with the crooks in office with the rich and fashionable
unchanged we go on saying thank you thank you

with the animals dying around us
our lost feelings we are saying thank you
with the forests falling faster than the minutes
of our lives we are saying thank you
with the words going out like cells of a brain
with the cities growing over us like the earth
we are saying thank you faster and faster
with nobody listening we are saying thank you
we are saying thank you and waving
dark though it is

The Cure

I love The Cure. I think deep down inside me, though it doesn’t always show, there is a messy-haired version of me with bright red lipstick that dances just like Robert Smith.

Do you have a musical alter ego?

The ice from the weekend storm had just begun to fade from the sidewalks when the flakes began to fall again, today.

In the autumn, I found myself anxious to leave Madison for new cities, long train rides, and the ocean. But as I left work at twilight, and the snowy streets were lit by this town’s sweet lights, I remembered that a good snow makes everyplace magical.

Especially home.

Sufjan Stevens - The Lakes of Canada

One of those videos I come back to month after month.

(check out the original by the Innocence Mission, too)

I was going to post about this link, specifically what he says at around 7 minutes 31 seconds, because I like what he says there. Feel free to check it out now. The post will have to wait, because Madison has welcomed December with the first snow of the season. I can’t seem to find my camera’s memory card, so you will just have to take my word for it.

I walked to work in the dark. It was cool out and clear enough to see the moon. People came into the coffee shop as they usually do on Saturdays this time of year, slowly, ready for a quiet morning with the newspaper or dear conversation. Saturday was the same lovely morning it always is.

The snow began all at once, with no prelude of little flakes. People with icy beards and glittery snow-drop hair cozied closer to the fire. It felt like we were all enjoying something very special together. I love that about funny weather; it makes people feel connected somehow.

I waddled home through the snow dreaming of gingerbread, books, and cozy husbands.

December is so lovely.