There is certain starkness to the landscape this time of year that is best appreciated in black and white. The skeletons of trees. The texture of bark. The glossiness of holly. The glitter of raindrops hanging from branches. It all seems to stand out, somehow, in the gradients of grey.
Time, as always, seems to be slipping by so fast. How did the end of November come so quickly? I am not ready for it to be gone yet. Are you?
Now the anticipation of the holidays is coming on. A breeze picking up speed. Moving over the surface of our lives like the wind on the ocean. The inertia of excitement gathers within like a wave.
Already, we have stirred up the Christmas Pudding, from East to West of course, for good luck. Another English tradition I am happy to embrace, a ritual that pulls the rosy merriment of a Dickensian world into my kitchen. Cinnamon and sherry. Cloves and honey.
The Christmas lights of Falmouth were lit up last night, to a throng of people gathered shoulder to shoulder, counting down together with mulled wine warming their hands. Three, Two, One…
This weekend we will hang up the mistletoe. Gather bunches of holly and laurel and string up the lights.
We will read a chapter each night until Christmas from Dickens (at least I hope so, M. is not so sure about this…), who has become an obsession of late. I’ve even been dreaming of him.
And so the days will pass, the wave will gather intensity. We will not be going home for the first time since I can remember. It will just be the two of us, alone with our rituals and dreams. Perhaps that will be alright.
What will you be doing in these days of gathering anticipation?