We hung hand-cut snowflakes on the upstairs window the other day.
It was 80-degrees and not yet Thanksgiving; but they were leftover from Edith's birthday party, toiled over and far too pretty to bin.
We taped them to the glass almost like a rain dance, but a song; like a little whisper of a prayer. Our hearts always hope for magic.
I struggled through last Christmas, trying to savor the time of year I love, but desperate to find myself in it, knowing all the change and heartache that would shortly follow. And as this year proved it would stretch to the end of itself, still turning up unexpected obstacles and change, I think I was afraid. I was scared that maybe that part of me was indefinitely lost too. That for as long as life remained uncertain, who I was would be hard to define as well.
Maybe parts of that are true. But today I walked out into the schoolyard after dropping Edith at her class, and the flakes seemed to double in size before my eyes. They whirled around the empty space, in silvery light, through hushed air, almost frozen. I stood in the snow globe with my face to the sky, trying to see where the snow begins. Where the magic happens.
I just got home and I turned on Sufjan Stevens Christmas, even though it's against the rules. I am watching the snow--one of my truest friends, my heart's delight--flutter down outside the old windows of this little house we're calling home for now. It is happy and glittery confetti, calling for celebration.
And now I know how true it is: day by day, old joys come back to me. Let the heart keep hoping for magic.