The sucrose coating over a bitter pill does not alter its core. This time of year does not need to smack of that desperate need to get away from it all. Each heart carries a burden and each home has dark corners, which those who live there wish to avoid. A picture of a contented wholeness, but to some a cutting reminder of their own single state, of a barren womb, echoing passages of an empty house, a stalking sickness or a rejected love. Being surrounded by families - with children in rainbows of exuberance. For some, there is the prospect of Christmas without a loved one, whether through death, distance, divorce or estrangement.
But for some the pain does not back down so easily, like a fanged being who will not let itself be caged or abandoned. Locking the doors to a year of stress and worry and putting distance between yourself and the cares, worries and mundane reality of daily life. A time when sorrow is drowned in overspending, eating, drinking and escaping to holiday haunts. This time of year is like a drug to some. The colour of joy, love and the very source of life itself. Leaving a flash of colour behind in my mind's eye. A shy forest bird, with wingtips dipped in crimson. The flash of scarlet was like a defiance of the grey canvas surrounding it. At first I mistook them for the trio of crows which have noisily taken up residence on Inesi. Three rather large birds were faintly outlined in the mist. Memories of sweet as well as bitter times often float to the surface during this season when the world celebrates, even if it seems uncertain of what exactly the purpose of the party is.Įarlier today, as I shook out my muddy mop into the crisp air, I noticed a movement in the wattle trees behind our home. Pain may even serve to enhance that which is gentle and beautiful, and does not need to be denied for us to be awake to beauty. Islands of blessings soften the trials and realities of living in a broken world. The scene outside my window reminds me that even during the hay days of summer abundance and festive holiday excitement, there is pain. Horses, great ghostly shapes in the mist, graze noisily and bury their soft noses in patches of sweet grass among the weeds. Even the verdant growth seems a bit weighed down. It is silent and austere, without the refreshment of rain or the hope of the sun breaking through. This morning the low slung cloud mass is neither soft nor friendly.
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