December

Don't rage at the dying of light. Don't rage at the black walnut husks blackening the walkway. Don't rage at the flakes of hornets nest billowing in today's December gusts. In its long, quick commute to your retinas, who are you to not let light rest? The early evening wane, the walnuts' dye, the billowing flakes of nest are all signs of rest. The brightest red berries are ready to be plucked from their dark bough. The ground is readying itself for the great freeze, reinforcing the den walls of rodent and insect alike.

Homes turn into lanterns--signs of life still stirring, steam in windows, signatures of smoke. In these times of darkness and rest, one sustains oneself on free energy. Apropos, the holidays of cheer, folklore, and warm lights waft inward. A little tongue peeks out in concentration as a child squeezes a dot of icing to complete the gingerbread's face. Our frozen brethren step from the blustery darkness, over the rubber threshold, bearing buggy or cart, bearing the argument over whether a person should call it a buggy or a cart. They maneuver the buggy or cart through narrow lanes of light and shine. Free energy everywhere. Turn the handle and see what happens. Poke your finger through this hole to feel the soft fabric. Imagine this soft fabric on your own skin as your laze around at-rest at-home. Plastic platters of every shape and color and sparkle engage your muscle memory of stirring the batter, licking the spoon, and squinting your eyes at the waft of heat released from the oven.

Oven. Oven. Oven. Oven. Oven. Oven. Oven. The semantic satiation kicks in and the word becomes nonsense or perhaps a term of endearment for someone you love. My oven, my heart. New meanings are always nice. Just as it is always nice to be an atheist drunk on nog, passing the presents around, loving the smell of spruce even if it induces hives on your skin. No religion necessary. But you'll water the tree anyway and besides, while you were out shopping, you found this nifty, long spout that allows easy access to the tree's thirsty, dying leg-mouth. No contact necessary. You can stand next to your spruce and pour water down the plastic gullet using one hand, the other hand flailing around as you explain that time you sled-rode as a child until your legs were numb from cold and you couldn't walk and had to be carried home.

It is a time of wanting snow but not inconvenience. Of wanting camaraderie and goodwill but not a god. Of belief and disbelief. Of accepting the great dark while under the glistening glow of light. No wrong, no right. It is when you're in the warm, lit confines of your home that you cannot see beyond your window, that dark mirror, into the bright eyes of the native night.