![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
katallisonWhew. Made it through the giganto-noisy-crowded step-family celebration in good form, managed to duck out relatively early and sober, and am now home, gathering LJ to my bosom in a tender embrace, reconnecting with all of you out there who are (oh, I'm so soppy) my *real* family.
Years ago, when I was living with S., we used to drive every Christmas Eve to his parents' house. They lived about 50 miles south of town, and as we drove, the city lights would slowly thin out and fall away behind us, but even when we were out in the country, driving past the empty snowy fields, there were still farmhouses visible here and there, each of them festooned with colored lights, aglow in the huge darkness. Every time, I would think of a carol which I've now mostly forgotten, except for the last line--"Everywhere, everywhere, Christmas tonight!"
Which is patently silly, of course, it's not Christmas everywhere, in fact in most of the world it's just another night in December. But what that line somehow signified to me was that each of these houses we drove past were full of people gathering together, lighting candles, eating and drinking; that there was a specialness about the night that reverberated even for people like S. and me, who were not in any sense Christians. That however far we drove those celebrations would be going on, that the night was full of some subliminal melody, some invisible hum that struck a resonance in all of us, strangers though we all were to each other.
Blessings to all of you out there, believers and non- alike, those for whom it's about Christ and those for whom it's about the swag and good food and those for whom it's about the sun's rebirth and those for whom it's just another night except that everything is closed. Blessings to all of you suffering through strained family gatherings or revelling with people you love or sitting quietly at home by yourselves watching Firefly DVDs or devouring Yuletide stories. It makes me very happy to read down the names on my friends list and think about how each of you is a glimmering light out there in the big darkness, and to put my hands on the keyboard and feel the hum of connection running between us all.
(And dear god, my upstairs neighbors are playing an old Doors album, very loud, and singing along, sort of. Or shouting along. Despite which, I shall go crawl into bed and sleep deeply.)
Years ago, when I was living with S., we used to drive every Christmas Eve to his parents' house. They lived about 50 miles south of town, and as we drove, the city lights would slowly thin out and fall away behind us, but even when we were out in the country, driving past the empty snowy fields, there were still farmhouses visible here and there, each of them festooned with colored lights, aglow in the huge darkness. Every time, I would think of a carol which I've now mostly forgotten, except for the last line--"Everywhere, everywhere, Christmas tonight!"
Which is patently silly, of course, it's not Christmas everywhere, in fact in most of the world it's just another night in December. But what that line somehow signified to me was that each of these houses we drove past were full of people gathering together, lighting candles, eating and drinking; that there was a specialness about the night that reverberated even for people like S. and me, who were not in any sense Christians. That however far we drove those celebrations would be going on, that the night was full of some subliminal melody, some invisible hum that struck a resonance in all of us, strangers though we all were to each other.
Blessings to all of you out there, believers and non- alike, those for whom it's about Christ and those for whom it's about the swag and good food and those for whom it's about the sun's rebirth and those for whom it's just another night except that everything is closed. Blessings to all of you suffering through strained family gatherings or revelling with people you love or sitting quietly at home by yourselves watching Firefly DVDs or devouring Yuletide stories. It makes me very happy to read down the names on my friends list and think about how each of you is a glimmering light out there in the big darkness, and to put my hands on the keyboard and feel the hum of connection running between us all.
(And dear god, my upstairs neighbors are playing an old Doors album, very loud, and singing along, sort of. Or shouting along. Despite which, I shall go crawl into bed and sleep deeply.)
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2003-12-24 09:10 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2003-12-25 12:03 am (UTC)that was the Doors' little known xmas cover of "ole little town of Dreadlehem"
Date: 2003-12-25 07:40 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2003-12-25 11:51 am (UTC)*kiss!*
(no subject)
Date: 2003-12-25 02:33 pm (UTC)