Ahhh . . . the Christmas Cusp is here. Again. That precious piece of time that starts December 26th and goes for maybe a week.
If you’re really lucky, longer.
It’s when you slow down, throw out the calendar, keep no schedule and the only clock you listen to is your body clock. Sweet.
I discovered the Christmas Cusp a few years ago but I couldn’t know then that it would grow richer by the year — more pleasurable. Like wine.
I discovered the Christmas Cusp a few years ago but I couldn’t know then that it would grow richer by the year — more pleasurable. Like wine.
This year, I fell deep into its spell. Being quiet. Hearing quiet. One day, I stayed in my skivvies, staring at our Christmas tree — too pretty to take down. A scrumptious little tree that I’ll see long after the lights are unplugged.
Another day, I cooked a pot of black-eyed peas. Cajun style. Poured a mimosa, built another fire in the fireplace and stared at the Christmas tree some more.
I spent another one flipping through a box of old record albums. Pulled some out of sleep and laid them on a turntable. A ritual that still strikes me as something of the divine. This year, I listened to Joni Mitchell and Joe Cocker — over and over again. Voices as rich in sound as the lyrics they’re singing.
Baking bread crossed my mind, something I haven’t done since college, but then my body clock signaled that it was time for something else. Another nap.
By New Year’s Eve, I guess my husband started worrying that I might never snap out of my slug fest. Slug as in noun. Sitting around the fireplace, he asked me, “So, do you have any New Years resolutions?” “None,” I answered.
Not that I don’t have plenty to make. It’s just that this timely pleasure also means throwing out the shoulds too. For a little while anyway.
Today is January 4th — I think — and the 2015 calendar sits under a pile on my desk. I’ll dig it out soon and crack it open feeling the Christmas Cusp dissolve a little more every time I turn a page. The image of the tree though will not.
Until then, I’ll soak up these last sweet hours. Haul in more wood. Work more Sudoku (I just moved from hard to diabolic). Finish Rick Bragg’s book, Jerry Lee Lewis, His Own Story, and probably, grow another dreadlock.
Maybe two.
Another day, I cooked a pot of black-eyed peas. Cajun style. Poured a mimosa, built another fire in the fireplace and stared at the Christmas tree some more.
Courtesy photo
Another day, I cooked a pot of black-eyed peas. Cajun style. Poured a mimosa, built another fire in the fireplace and stared at the Christmas tree some more.
An aerial image of Goodthyme Farm in Bellville, on the market for $29 million. Photo by Kerry Kirk 