I stood barefoot, aware that the tiles beneath my feet were not nearly as cold as I expected them to be on a night in December in Utah. Last year, in the year without a furnace, my feet were never bare, or rarely bare, bare only because it was necessary to be bare in the short hop from shower back to half wet sliding into woolly warm socks. Here I was, standing barefoot, no woolly socks, aware of the splinter in my heel that throbs still, but is a constant reminder of how much he loves me.
Bare feet on cold tile floors and a splinter deep in my heel. Impractical reminders of love, for certain.
I swam deep into his blue eyes and shared that November (or is it December? or is it just Utah?) is very difficult for me and I become less than a glittery spectre of the better pieces of myself. I do not like the me of these dark and cold months. The gratitude does not come so easily. The gifts I love and long to share feel like they're buried beneath a snowbank, frozen, waiting for the sun to return.
Is it any wonder, really, that we smack this season of our darkest days full of proffered presents and sugar laden feasts and manufactured good cheer?
I'm not particularly fond of the manufactured good cheer, but I am a big fan of the returning light. Give me the sun. With a side of organic arugula. Pretty, please.
I am the first to admit, right here, out loud, that I am cold and snappish, and my own boughs break easily during these cold dark days. So forgive me for not tossing glitter bombs in your direction. I've got them, as I know you've got them in all the colors of the rainbow, and perhaps the best remedy for all this dark and Grinchy green glum and gloom might just be an epic glitter bomb party.
"My life is truly that much better because of you. Thank you for being here. Right here. And for reading and loving me when you do."
I'm adjusting my tutu. And my attitude. And waiting for the sun.
And saying grace for the splinter in my heel and all of you.