December Neither Agrees Nor Disagrees With You
12.21.2024
November leaves without a word. In the middle of the night, like an owl floating forward on its way to the next promising perch. You’ll miss November, especially since his departure means that December will be arriving shortly.
December’s presence is a mixed bag—you never know what you’ll get. It’s not so much December’s moods, as it is the fact that December comes with expectations and you’re losing energy by the day. And also: that to-do list of yours? The great majority of items remain in the Do column and you’re running out of days to move them over to Done.
All this puts you in a defensive, sullen state of mind well before noon is even a twinkle on the horizon. For the rest of the day you wear your irritation like armor, shined up and hard as a diamond; armor you don’t bother to remove before going to sleep. After all, you might need the protection when you end up on the other side of your mind tonight.
You wake up with the dark slowly dissolving to find the sky seeping gemstone tones: ruby, amethyst, sapphire. You haven’t seen such a glorious beginning to a day since…since the last time December was here. And in a flash, you can deny December’s arrival no more.
There are the hues of the sunrise, for starters. There’s the pack of eight dogs sleeping on an assortment of pillows in the living room. And there’s the penetrating sound of snoring from the guest suite, tumbling down the hall and through the living room, around the fine cut angles of the entry to the open fireplace filled with colored glass, across the weathered wood of the dining room table, through the open wall on which one side serves as a buffet and the other the kitchen counter; a permeating sound tumbling steadily through the house, until it wiggles its way into the dark opening of your ears as you make the first coffee. No doubt about it, December is in the house.
You stay in that evening—it’s pelting rain outside and you don’t feel like facing it. You make dinner, which December tells you is good but a little too salty. -But the wine is great, December offers, before questioning why you never lock your front door. You claim that you did lock the door and that December must have used the spare key. There’s a lazy nod from across the table, but you get the feeling this gesture is not a signal of agreement with your summation of facts.
-A mystery…is December’s only reply.
There will be many discussions like this. Though discussion isn’t exactly the right word, for you notice that it’s mostly you doing the talking. In the many hours after sunset you carefully craft justifications, layout the distinct pieces of evidence in order to prove whatever point you want to make. December listens. Nods that non-committal nod as you speak.
At the point in the conversation where you begin to feel embarrassed for putting so much effort into trying to convince December to see things the way that you do, you find the good grace to just stop talking. After a breath of silence, December starts in:
-And, what if…
December’s perspective catches you off-guard. But you listen. It’s the least you can do after your uninterrupted soliloquy.
December goes on for a bit, concluding with—Of course, that is just one way of looking at it. One of the dogs thumps her tail loudly in her sleep: dreaming of…slow squirrels, you imagine.
You come to understand, after more than one of these exchanges, that December neither agrees nor disagrees with you, which is not to say that December lacks conviction or a point of view. It’s just that December’s point of view tends to be all encompassing without the slightest hint of being non-committal. It confounds you.
You decide to host a party. No one RSVPs so you’re surprised when everyone you invited shows up. You’re not sure how December will take it, being much more reserved than the gregarious, charismatic animal that November is. But afterward, you find out that December made the rounds, spoke to everyone, and made a lasting impression. Which is not to say that everyone found December to be pleasant.
You tease December about this: “You proved to be quite the polarizing figure,” you say. “Some of the guests absolutely adored you, while others…”
-I can’t deny that I’m not everyone’s cup of tea. But at least I’m not January!
It’s the first joke December has made the entire visit, and at January’s expense, no less. And yet, you have to agree.
December insists on afternoon tea every day, which you take part in but only for the cookies. After finishing the first half of the third cup of tea, December announces:
-I’ll be taking off tonight. There are many people I promised to visit while I’m here.
This comes out of nowhere, much like December’s arrival, but you know better than to try and talk December into staying longer.
With a sharp whistle, December calls the dogs, all eight of which promptly rise and head to the front door. The way they move seems almost choreographed, in perfect two by two formation. They trot elegantly to the trailer where each one jumps in, one by one, walks to her personalized crate, turns a circle or two, then lays down to rest her coal black nose between two outstretched paws.
As December expertly maneuvers the hitched trailer around your awkward driveway, you notice the vintage red Jeep is still uncovered. You ask why the top isn’t on—it is almost winter after all—to which December replies, -Easier to see in the dark.
You disagree with the premise, but you don’t have time for one of your debates. December blows you a kiss as the Jeep pulls out of the driveway, and then shouts loud enough for you to hear: -I left you some gifts! after which you swear you hear the sound of a deep chuckle as the Jeep bounds down the hill.
Gifts? Besides feeling awful for not buying anything for December, you are unsure where the presents might be. You don’t find any boxes or gift bags on the counter or under the tree. You open the refrigerator: no Veuve in there. You give up. And anyway, it’s been dark for a few hours now. It’s not even 7pm but you are ready to go to bed.
The next morning is cool, with the crisp scent of cedars and firs waving through the air. You walk the dog across the drive and down the road, take note of the ochre layers of light resting on the final few leaves still holding on to the salmonberry. It’s so still you are compelled to stop and join the quiet. Which you do, for a handful of time, until you realize where the gifts are.
You were looking for shiny wrapping paper or a ribboned envelope, but December has unwrapped them all for you: the yellow-crowned Kinglets, which you can finally see through the wispy bare branches of the understory; unveiled nests which were built months ago, now visible—their intricately weaved structure still standing strong within the crooks of maples and the thick, thorny shoots of unbridled blackberry; feathery, sparkling spikes of frost framing the blades and leaves—showcasing both their delicacy and fortitude; newly peeking and pink buds of the peony stalks—today hard as dense wood in order to survive whatever lands between now and May; the bright and almost blinding silver of the fog, the gold-flecked orbs on the tips of needles where the sun glows through even the smallest drops of rain, clinging resolutely before it finally gathers itself for the drop down to the welcoming floor of the forest that has been waiting so patiently for it.
And these are just the gifts left where you’ve been able to look. What other gifts did December leave that you haven’t even found yet? And what if December gave you gifts you didn’t find until years later when you could finally see them as gifts and not, as they seemed at the time, a series of rejections from a heartless world, or an endless stream of obligations? And what if December’s gifts have already been received, and all you have to do now is share them with everyone you possibly can?
And what if?
Happy Solstice, dear Readers!
I wish you many wonderful gifts, connections & discoveries wherever you find yourself.
{| AC.
Happy holidays my friend! As you know, I thoroughly enjoy these.
I particularly love the message of this one … and I agree about January