You arrived here, confused and you spent most of your time learning your one life.
The story is old and goes back forever:
You get this one life.
The way you hold your life will reveal if you feel your life holding you.
First, you were born.
As a young girl you bathed yourself in fear on a daily basis.
Strong fear that moved mountains and cleaned up blood.
Bold fear that stopped hearts and furnished strength and motivation.
Sweet fear that rinsed away cowardice and hesitation in the house where you lived.
Being afraid most hours of the day made you weary and it also gave you your Wound.
The essence of your Sweetness was that you tried very diligently.
The essence of your Sweetness is your Wound.
You always seemed to know that your Sweetness was weighed down with a certain sense of grasping and dying to please.
You identified this as despair and you made a concerted effort to temper it with anything that flowed.
You were scrawny, like a reed. You entered dodgeball games with humans five times your size. Your predilection for being accepted was so strong that you threw your flimsy body in the line of fire. Your broken arm was your mark of valor. All you knew was that you tried and people witnessed you trying.
All you knew is that, for several moments, you were in the thick of it—you were part of it.
And this is where much of your Sweetness resides—your ability to step outside of yourself and observe what you do.
That bit of groundedness that anchors you after a long hard struggle is like nourishment to you. You’ve learned and studied how and where to find your nourishment as you’ve felt along your bumpy path.
You knew you preferred sturdy Sweetness early on.
The type of deep Sweetness that abides next to stomach-churning strength from the most weathered part of your soul.
It’s weathered because of all it’s seen and heard.
You cling to this fact about yourself and you put two and two together:
There is such Sweetness in mustering up courage—the bright and shiniest kind.
Sweetness became the soft blanket you draped over your shoulders when no one was looking.
In 3rd grade you were the teacher’s pet and, although you loved this feeling right down to your knee socks, you understood that the intoxicating and foreign warmth of being the favorite was short-lived because other children wanted to be the favorite too. You began to understand that there are times when adults or other kids think you’re special. You’re drawn to this feeling. You start to develop a set formula for creating this feeling.
This becomes the blueprint for your life.
You enter Middle School and you make it your business to know other people’s business in ways a comforting therapist would. You really are ahead of your time, the way you are able to hone in on that one thing that, upon reflection back to the person, will make them feel worthy and good.
You are very adept at mining for and discovering Sweetness in others.
You know that this is how you’ll make your way in the world. You’ll be a Sweetness Mirror. You’ll slither here and there and you’ll gaze at and do whatever it takes to reflect the glowiest parts back to people in order for them to love you.
But at a certain point, your sweetness begins to fade.
So much of your energy is emblazoned onto other people that you become invisible. When you take only a moment to put any sort of momentum into your own trajectory you could easily propel yourself around the moon.
You’re too busy polishing and shining others to notice this.
You know that the worst thing in the world is feeling unwanted and so you create a potion to sprinkle over whoever you feel you want or need and then that person stays in your orbit—your orbit that is lopsided and off course and unpredictable.
And you struggle forward. And your reflection in the eyes of the people you picked often frightened you. You saw them seeing you, in the wrong way. But you knew that you would never correct their view. You knew that the unspoken promise was that you existed for them and your existence did not matter.
And when your rage began, it began not so much as a way to get even or to express your stunted sense of unfairness— it began as a result of a simmering over. Your furious, true soul started to notice how often you ignored your simple, clear instinct and you started to keep track of the way you allowed your own dismissal.
You started to see that the people you chose to admire and build up were the exact people who never seemed satisfied with the gleam in your eye or the sparkle of your smile and you began to understand that you had purchased a ticket for admittance onto a ride that would be your demise.
But you continued to do the same thing. You continued to admire when you didn’t respect and you continued to adore when you didn’t like. And this was the beginning of the end for you. This was how your started to wake up from your cozy cave of denial. This was when you understood that the only person you needed to be fearful of alienating and losing was you.
This is what Sweetness came to tell you when it sat down next to you and regaled you with the story of your life.
It tapped at your window to whisper into your ear that your gorgeous falling apart was the best thing that could have happened because the soft space that’s created there is where Sweetness relies on to thrive—that space, in between the rage and secrets—where everything other than love is melted by light.
I’m not saying that I know everything about how the universe works but when you pull up to the gas pump in your 20 foot tall Chevy wearing felt reindeer ears and blasting Ted Nugent it appears that you are completely unaware that you are embodying the exact opposite of everything Christmas Joy attempts to exude.
Stop the Madness,
You’s a Fool Division
I’m one of those maniacs that doesn’t mind the Christmas decorations in stores during October. And if it were possible I’d lobby for it to be Christmas all year long. Regardless of the fact that I cringe at the thought of all the glittery paper that’s wasted and my ancestors have been cursed with an alarmingly strong Gravy Fail gene, I don’t care. I am in love with all the jolly and lights and fake icicles and antique ornaments that have been in my family since my great grandfather was alive and just the whole hullabaloo that surrounds the holidays. The rushing around and planning of menus. The wreaths and candy canes and the chance to wear more black velvet. I’m a fool for it all, even though I had to endure the explosion of my first Susie Homemaker Oven at the age of six—this horrifying experience never snuffed out one ounce of my inner Elfness. As a matter of fact, if I could, I would have pursued a degree in Elfhood if it weren’t for the fact that I look terrible in hats.
What about you? Don’t you just love it all? Even the assholes in the stores who cut in front of you in line? Even the relatives you’d never have in your life were you not connected through DNA? Isn’t there a glowy feel to the air and the sky and the faces of people in the cars next to you who you’re certain are headed to the airport to pick up someone coming in from far away? I don’t care what the Grincheys say. I adore it all and I always have and I believe that when I’m 90 I’ll still be wrestling with that last string of lights with that one vagabond bulb that won’t go on because I know that, when it comes to Christmas, you can always use more glimmering color.
Happy Merry Ho,