It’s hard to believe it’s Christmastime again. It seems like it was, at most, six or seven months ago I was taking down last year’s Christmas flair– the 6-foot pewter tinsel tree from Target, and the pine cone, mulberry and holly wreath I made by hand and hung on the front door. Was that a whole year ago?

Wait. Hold on…Dec, Jan, Feb, March, April…add three and carry the one…it WAS seven months ago when I took all that crap down. Woops. Ha!

I procrastinate therefore I am.

It’s already that time of year again. When everybody’s shopping and eating and being merry and gay. When kids are searching the suburban sky or the tenement top for Santa and his sleigh. When egg nog, red foil-wrapped Hershey kisses and peppermint lattes all come into play. And family’s on their way!

Oy vey.

For others, nostalgia sets in. Some people get lonely. Some feel sad. It’s been a tough few weeks for America. Our world. In a general state of unrest. Odd poetry. Strange rhythm. Heavy gravity. Under a cloak of ennui.

And that’s ok, too. Because nothing lasts always.

I look back on my year and while I cannot remember every moment, my mind’s eye sees this great newspaper photo spread I created for myself. I think of it as walking through the Newseum in D.C. only it’s the newseum of ME. A multi-dimensional collection of images and sounds and textures and movements and ideas that are fully, uniquely me. One hundred percent mine. And in all that I made possible, there is no good and bad or happy and sad. None of that exists anymore. All of what I put together simply…is. Wow. Right? And there is absolutely nothing else in the Universe that can even come close to resembling the exhibition of life I created.

And nothing can come close to the one you created for yourself.

I believe each and every one of us is truly special. Truly worthy. How you’re feeling or what you’re doing at “this time of year” honestly matters very little in the whole scheme of things. And yet, we are all invited to be in this moment. Just. As. We. Are. There’s a lot of poetry in that.

Merry moments and healing holidays I wish for myself and for you. And if I’ve written nothing else here that remains with you, please fuse this next thing into every crevice of your cognitive being: I have never, ever in my life hand made a pine cone, mulberry and holly wreath so don’t ask me how to make one. What the hell is a mulberry?

Till next time!

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