The Feels

Have been feeling Christmassy since that dreamy agate day in St Andrews.  Travelled home a day early as the forecast changed from 2 degrees to -7.  The countryside to drive through would have been icy.  Inclement weather is mostly why I drive to Christmas-visit in early December. 

It was the year I bought this house that I finally told the truth about wanting to keep Christmas in my own home.  For years before that, drove back, a ball of resentment, guilted by that ‘togetherness’ idea of Christmas.  I was working, stressed, and just wanted twelve days of rest. 

The Christmas after my father died, my mother and sister came up here, and I made sure it was special, Fortnum’s hamper and all.  We had a lovely time, sea-air walks, and they experienced what the travelling was like. 

I’m a home biddy, and prefer a calm, relaxing, restful Christmastime.  The whole truth is, I can’t bear all the emotions never emoted at some family gatherings.  Sometimes I have been at the Christmas dinner table choking, because I wouldn’t speak out in my mother’s house, so sit there, feeling sad and depressed.  Before he died, my father couldn’t eat, for several years.  That first year, rather than just make something simple, my mother made the full Christmas dinner and he, the soul, sat and watched us.  Nobody said a word.  She was only trying to help him join in, but it was miserable.  It made me review all the nonsense we’re sold about family time at Christmastime.  I’m not the only one who’s felt resentment from Christmas-togetherness obligation. 

I prefer to keep the twelve days rest and peace, safely in my own home, with family times sprinkled throughout the year. 

Invited them up this year, but it’s too cold. 

Truth is best.