It’s the time of year when we allow ourselves the right to be children. We justify being immature. We crave the giddiness of celebration with friends and family. We spend and we give and we become more generous than we are all year because we do not think of the consequences of our bank accounts. We only focus on our feelings, and mostly the positive ones at that. We love a little more, forgive a lot more and allow ourselves to live a life we normally wouldn’t consider realistic.
I am back living in New York City, though I do not see my life as coming full circle. Rather, I am looping in figure eights of infinity. I am thirty-three years old, and lately, I have been walking a lot, writing a lot and thinking a lot. Reality. Reality is a word that is a constant foundation for a lot of my literary journeys. It has, of late, been the foundation for my life’s journeys as well. Reality is, regardless of the life we live within. And I have learned that Reality is quite freeing, not the life-long destiny of the burdens we feel we must need.
Through every phase of our lives, we are so certain of who we are and of what Reality it is that we live in. So certain, we presume to hold the power to predict the future. Then, little adjustments persistently occur in our daily lives. They are not always subtle, and intentionally so. They allow the individual the time to process and adapt, so as to keep the soul on path. But sometimes, no matter how obvious they might be, we choose to simply ignore them, stubbornly insisting on our presumptions.
Then one day, five years ago, I awoke to Reality, again, and now some years later, I am trying to make sense of it, again.
It is 5:40am on the twenty-second of December. When I was a child, I would also be up at this time on this day, though, within another Reality; the forty to fifty people who were about to take over my house, the paper I’d soon be tearing through, the endless food, the chaos, the noise, the fighting, the sheer bedlam that was awaiting another Christmas would get me so inspired, I would rarely sleep for the entire month. Three days before Christmas, I was awake before the sun.
I still look forward to Christmas, to everything leading up to it. Just quite differently, now. This time of year has become more reflective for me as the years continue. It is a time of calmness when I allow myself the detachment from whatever realities there are in order to be content with myself and my life. I don’t have much family left, and I have understood for a while now that there comes a time in the life journey when a person must continue up the mountain in solitude. I am very near that point, and this Christmas is a reminder of those moments that have meant the most.
All during our youth, we’re told that life never turns out as planned; that, being young, naïve and intellectually immature as we were, we could never understand the fragility of a single moment. And we did not believe it, ever, because we were certain of our Reality. At that age, we knew life only as simple and endless. This year, I realize that it is because of my youthful stubbornness to reinterpret Reality that I know nothing of the path that I am currently on in my life. And, this Christmas, I am reflective of and grateful for not wanting to know.