I had such good intentions of writing every single day this month. And I started strong. I was enjoying it, the quest to find a topic every day, practicing the muscle of finding the words to pin down my thoughts. It felt good. And the exercise was helping me to shake out new ideas, more each day than I could use so that I could string them forward into other projects, next month, set aside for when I had more time to dig deeper.
But then my grandfather died and I dropped everything and flew to Canada. And then I brought the flu home with me and the whole household has been staggering under it. And then the rains came and I feel my energy winding down. And here I sit in the middle of the last full week of the month and wonder what happened to November.
I love and hate you, November. This is the month that starts out warm and cozy and ends cold and wheezing. It always goes faster than I expect and then the holidays are upon me and I'm unprepared. My birthday is at the end but I'm always so worn out by the time it arrives that I just want it over and done with so I can sleep. And by the time I catch my breath again it is the middle of December and Christmas is looming and I haven't planned gifts and the ones that need to be mailed are already late and I decide yet again that I won't be doing cards this year and I swear that next year I will be more organized and more prepared and more rested and it will be better.
I don't think my skidding slide to the end of the year actually has anything to do with poor organization or lack of preparedness. My energy is low these months and it always will be. I plan too much and my expectation are too high and I cannot keep up with it all. Perhaps I have not fully adjusted my expectations to my energy level. Perhaps I still hold on to things I think I should be doing rather than things I want to do. Do I really want to make and send Christmas cards? Maybe a little. But more I would like to make cookies with my family and have an ornament-making craft night, and have quiet evenings with a fireplace and a movie and my knitting. I want to savor this season and not fight it so much every year.
I am hosting Thanksgiving this year and it will be potluck. I'm having to let go, over and over, of the idea of the perfect meal I *could* cook and keep myself to the two dishes I said I would make. Others can bring the rest. I could make amazing stuffing but it would take me all day to make and make me too tired to enjoy the meal. The part I want is the community around the table, a glass of wine in my hand, laughter flowing. Let the stuffing go. Let go. Let go. Let go.
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