I’m not feeling the Christmas spirit. I could blame the severe hypothyroid condition which is sapping all my energy, or the cold I have on top of it, which is just exacerbating the situation, but whatever the reason, I’m just not feeling the magic.
My tree stands in the dining room window, lit, but naked, as if it’s tottered in drunk from the cold, unsure of whether or not it really belong here, and of what might have happened to its shoes, or, for that matter its pants.
I’ve mostly decorated the mantle with my motley crew of Victorian Santas, but it feels like they’re mocking me this year. Like they aren’t interested in anything except being tucked away safely between layers of tissues and bubble wrap, waiting for next year, when I might be in the mood again.
Maybe it’s the political climate that has me feeling this way, like I’m caught in some kind of limbo.
Maybe it’s the Texas weather, chill, grey, murky, but with no sign of precipitation coming any time soon.
Or maybe it’s just me.
I started Holidailies wanting to write fun stories about holiday magic and everyday magic, and I haven’t written in over week. I wanted to do a podcast project with a bunch of other Doggies from The Dog Days of Podcasting, but I feel like there’s no point because I don’t have anything new or interesting to offer.
My characters whisper to me, ever more insistently, to progress their stories, and I just tune them out.
I’m not depressed, at least, not clinically.
I’m just tired. And feeling stale and burnt out.
The cold ashes of a two-days-past fire.
And even opening the doors on the advent calendar isn’t helping this year.
So, I’m counting the days to something new.
I don’t know if 2017 will be better or worse (dear God, I hope it’s better), but at least it will be different…