I was listening to an old interview of Mr. Rogers. He said that he was always able to 
“play what he felt,” on the piano. I feel the same way about my keyboard at the Mac. Yesterday I mentioned I had started feeling Christmas angst. I can’t tell you the why of it; I just know that the holiday pushes all of my buttons.

At the grocery store I found myself fumbling around in my purse for my list and coupons. I couldn’t decide what to buy for our Christmas Day dinner. Ultimately I put a Kentucky Bourbon pork tenderloin into the basket. Then I found a package of dressing you make on the stovetop and threw that in.

I do everything quickly and I am not quite sure why. I have blamed this on being afraid of my father and that is a distinct possibility. He had a way of looking at you that inspired fear. I eat fast, I write fast, I read fast. Nothing seems to get me to slow down and do things at a more relaxed pace. To offset that, I spend time on and off during the day just sitting in silence.

I have never been interested in doing anything by hand. Oh, I had a phase of doing crewel when I was in college, but I gave that up long ago. I have no skills in decorating for Christmas. I used to bake and make candy during the holidays, but now I don’t even do that.

This year I just put old Christmas items on the kitchen breakfront. It looks like a child did it. Rob doesn’t care; he is not a holiday person either.

Last night I dreamed of a woman taking care of my husband while he was dying. I was left out. When I woke up, a feeling of depression had crept in because of that dream. I had trouble shaking it off. The subconscious has nothing better to do than disturb our false sense of well-being.

I don’t know how you feel about my penchant for being honest about the holidays. I am always glad when they are over. This time next week it will be Christmas afternoon. Along with eating too much sugar and fat, I will also have too many moments when I feel Christmas Past standing right behind my back. The sister and brother, the husband, the younger me…the beautiful tree now replaced by a tiny artificial one on the kitchen counter, the cards we used to get now dwindled down to only a handful.

My soul lives above this mortal life. It shores me up when it gets too heavy for me to bear. I have only heard the heavenly choir once. About 25 years ago I had flown to Memphis to help my mother after she had laser surgery done for her glaucoma. In her apartment, I was waked up before dawn by a dream I had in which I heard the angelic choir. There was no doubt in my mind about it. I told my mother that she would be okay because I heard it. And I must have faith that we are all okay even when we don’t hear it. Selah.

Love, Vicki