There is a lot to do before Christmas.
Besides re-vamping my horse feed program and attempting for the first time to wean a foal from his mother's milk (is my life weird?), I am once again caught up in the insanity of making all of my Christmas gifts. This will be the third year.
This year, though, I've been away for much of the two months leading up to Christmas, so I've scaled back. If I didn't, I would go insane from the stress of frantically learning to be a better sewer, baker, candlestick-maker (literally). This year I've made sure to include at least one item that I hand-made, but have allowed myself to purchase meaningful objects to fill in the gaps.
Lately I've been missing the city. Probably for its convenience when running so many Christmas-related errands. But I also think about my neighbourhood, the familiar shops and restaurants. My friend's pub. Our group of friends. Drinking coffee in good coffeeshops, walking the dog to the store to pick up a few things. Our small house and its innate coziness.
But this morning as I walked from breakfast with my coworkers back to my house to get in my truck, the sun was lighting the treetops with the most beautiful golden, silver-edged light. The frost on the branches glowed and the stark outline of the forest softened into light. The moment was a gift.
I must learn to be content where I am. To stop constantly mining the past for better times. During the time that we lived in that little house, I thought constantly of the time before that. I miss the feeling of being swept up in the right now, a feeling I've only had three times in my life. Each of those times was when I was fully engrossed in a new community, when I was making new friends I knew would be part of my life for a long time, when I was growing and felt loved and felt important. I miss all of those times equally. And that's just the problem: what about this time?
I've been given a wonderful gift out here in the country. I will endeavour not to waste it.