Little green and brown demons are scurrying throughout my limbs, causing me to feel itchy, twitchy, irritable and ugly. Ugly like feeling jealous over a friend's success in being published, ugly like feeling rejected in the dating world, and ugly like feeling too big for my favorite pair of jeans.
I hate these gremlins.
Of course, they delight in my hatred. It makes them giggle in a high-pitched tone and move even faster through my body. They grow as I loathe. This makes me loathe them all the more and they multiply even faster.
I hate myself for falling prey to these parasites.
As I explained the gremlin phenomenon to my dear friend, she said everything I felt was human. She'd feel that way too. I felt consoled but I told her the worst of it is that I can't appreciate the season; I feel nothing for Christmas this year. "I don't even care about the baby Jesus," I told her.
"It's ok," she said. "The baby Jesus understands."
Christmas and I have an interesting relationship. I loved no holiday better in my youth. I felt transported by the magic of candles and carols, by the twinkling lights and the twinkling eyes. Santa once walked down my grandma's street when I was three. He saw me in the window, came to the door, and gave me a wooden car. As an adult, this joy for Christmas continued. I got married in December at an old train depot; there were cedar beams, white poinsettias, a chocolate cake--everything about this season felt like hope and magic to me.
Last year, during the separation and divorce, I survived Christmas through a deliberate plan. This year I have been trying to leave the country and avoid the whole deal altogether.
God and NWA had other plans, though, and I have had to resign myself to staying put and dealing with the bittersweet memories of my Christmas pasts. Here, I think is where the gremlins come in. And possibly the baby Jesus.
I am not a particularly religious person. The last time I went to church was in September for my nephew's baptism. But I don't want to be plagued by gremlins for the next three weeks. The comment I made to my friend about the baby Jesus surprised me, but it's not wholly unhelpful. Praying is too hard right now. God is too hard. But a baby? I am a sucker for babies.
Yesterday I walked down the hall of my apartment building and heard the raspy cough of a baby with a cold. I felt a pang of desire to hold that baby. My nephew is four months old, all smiles and drool. Carrying him around my parents' house is the most beautiful part of the holidays. It's that innocence--the ability to spark joy simply by lifting him up in the air and saying "Sooo big."
Maybe this is why Jesus had to start out as a baby. Gremlins don't respond well to grown men or spiritual entities, but a baby? Well, who doesn't love a baby? Even the gremlins are forced to give up there tormenting, come to a stillness, and say, "Ohhh. How cute."
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