This comes to you from a drizzly place, a grey day so New York and so winter it hasn't got the energy to say more. A day for staying indoors, with food cooking.
In more ways than the weather this has been a grey drizzly month. A month of not knowing enough about what was happening, what was going to happen, yet having so much happening that it took over. Enough so that I got sick, my body just quit.
So the year is ending and it is Christmas. Christmas I think, unlike your birthday, is marked in the hostory book of your memory from two such different directions: It's memories of moments of giving, and memories of moments of receiving. We're taught that that is Christmas, and so it becomes. We teach our children to walk the presents over to your aunt, now over to grandpa. Teaching them to give in pace with receiving.
Not everyone learns to give in the same way. As a result, I think that life does not give to us each in the same way. We are somehow making different asks of the universe. And what we ask for is what we get. And what we give is what we get.
So today, in all of its grey damp, in the lonely ending of my marriage, it is strange to say that it really does feel like Christmas. The past month has shown me, so many times and in so many bizarre and eclectic ways that life truly opens up when you let it. Make the space and something wonderful floats in. Set the intention, know it is for your better good, pray and let it go. Miracles, magic things, happen.
Life is scary but scary is good. What is not so good is when life is grey on the inside. Inside keep it Christmas. Keep it magic and alive.
Peace and love. Merry Christmas.
