Twas the week before Christmas

This is the season of rising in the dark,

and walking to the parking lot after work 

by the glow of street lights.

This is the season of immersion in color, lights and children,

This is the season of returning home, 

turning the thermostat back up (to 68 degrees) 

and declining all opportunities to leave the house again.

This is the season of fuzzy socks, baggy punjammies, down duvets 

and the glow of Christmas lights as I sit reading while the dogs dream.

This is the season of words – 

in the books I read,
the songs I sing 

and the emails and letters I exchange
with beloveds far away.

This is the season of gray, damp days.

This is the season of dump chili, thick soups, simmering stews 

and dark chocolate peanut butter cups from a nearby Trader.

This is the season of moments with friends in crowded, noisy restaurants, 

exchanging secrets and hopes 

for the coming year.

This is the season of mystery,
ancient words
and communion with all the saints.

This is the season of tearful goodbyes and empty places at the table.

This is the season of all-day candles 

and mixed greens.

This is the season of quietness,
pondering, 

waiting, 

long conversations, 

and 

mad dashes.

This is the season to plan late winter and spring adventures 

to see new places and old faces.

This is the season to love the joy of those I love.

This is the season to live slow on the inside, 

leaning into all the sadness and joy.

 This is the season of nesting on the couch 

with Newsroom on continuous loop

 (with episodes of Sister Wives thrown in so I don’t get too comfortable on my high horse), 

hot chamomile tea, 

and reading one last chapter in bed...

before rising again in the dark,
to begin again.

This is my season of gratitude, 

thick and deep,

for all that is, 

for all that has been

and for all that will be.