Bring on the wassail, already.
I know, I know. It's the very beginning of the holiday season, but I have already feverishly decked our home in colored lights (the new rental has an ideal porch for this. In the end, I didn't even need a ladder, which is good because we don't own one), dragged N and wee Dot to the tree lot last weekend, and am now spending bits of free time between work projects pulling up favorite Christmas songs on my work computer. For which I've gained tentative and vague permission from my supervisor, partly because one of our louder librarians has moved into the office next door and sometimes I have to either turn on the music, run grab a coffee, or just put my hands over my ears in order to avoid eavesdropping. And it's too hard to type with my hands over my ears.
I am still in a state of semi-anxiety over the tenure decision that I won't know about until February or March, but several colleagues have said reassuring things, so I think my chances are fair. Not certain, but fair. And since I can't do anything about it now, I am trying to relax and distract myself (another reason for all the Christmas music, I guess).
Every year I read Connie Willis's Miracle and Other Christmas Stories, and every year her story "Newsletter" makes me want to write a better, funnier, more interesting (if not precisely true) newsletter. This year, my cat has written one that I may send out, but I think I may also draft one involving a talking mountain ash tree and the cyber-pixies who hang out in my office.
I love the bustle and preparations for Christmas and New Year's. I love the lights and music and stories and movies (even the bad ones) and baking and craft projects. I love it even though I am aware that much of it is really a protective shell that I (and we) build around the places where people are missing, where hopes have been dashed, where things are harder than expected and harder than they should be. We comfort ourselves and each other. We whistle in the dark. We tell stories of light and hope and warmth and believe (or try to) that better days are ahead. And even when it isn't entirely successful, it is valiant. And it is human in the best sense.
Also, it gives me an excuse to make glogg.
I am still in a state of semi-anxiety over the tenure decision that I won't know about until February or March, but several colleagues have said reassuring things, so I think my chances are fair. Not certain, but fair. And since I can't do anything about it now, I am trying to relax and distract myself (another reason for all the Christmas music, I guess).
Every year I read Connie Willis's Miracle and Other Christmas Stories, and every year her story "Newsletter" makes me want to write a better, funnier, more interesting (if not precisely true) newsletter. This year, my cat has written one that I may send out, but I think I may also draft one involving a talking mountain ash tree and the cyber-pixies who hang out in my office.
I love the bustle and preparations for Christmas and New Year's. I love the lights and music and stories and movies (even the bad ones) and baking and craft projects. I love it even though I am aware that much of it is really a protective shell that I (and we) build around the places where people are missing, where hopes have been dashed, where things are harder than expected and harder than they should be. We comfort ourselves and each other. We whistle in the dark. We tell stories of light and hope and warmth and believe (or try to) that better days are ahead. And even when it isn't entirely successful, it is valiant. And it is human in the best sense.
Also, it gives me an excuse to make glogg.