Holiday decorating soothes me. It is a happy place. I’d say more so than gardening, as it reflects all of those years as a floral designer.
I had an epiphany yesterday. I have always enjoyed making. I have always enjoyed Christmas decorating. As a florist, I’d put in sixty hour weeks in the warehouse dressing trees for a two month span. Or bang out centerpieces standing ankle-deep in discarded stems.
Then I’d get home and put up another tree. Dress my mantle. Hang some garlands. Keep my groove going into the night.
I have been chomping the bit to get at a tree. For months. Not that I’m such a Christmas-all-year advocate, but more because I’m seeking things that bring me joy.
This. Has. Been. A. Shitty. Year.
We don’t go out. We only shop at four places. We have no houseguests. No one else will see our house leading into the holidays… I need pretty.
I need to make.
I suspect that in my hands, as I add that holiday spark, I find happiness because they still hold the muscle memories of floral work.
In those knuckles and muscles and tendons are the echoes of all those holidays, all those centerpieces. All that gorgeousness!
Unlocked from memories as I unwrap, unravel, and hang: exuberance, relief, weightlessness.
Happiness. Investment. In and from the job I do. Sometimes, I miss how invested I was doing floral work. How engaged.
And happy, with and from and about what I did for a living…
This year has made everything tender, everything hurt. And I long to turn the hurt on end. Superficial, shiny, glittery things help.
I am a silly man. I enjoy silly things.
And if a silly plastic tree put up at Halloween turns a shitty year around, gives me the lift I need to continue plodding through the muck?
I will take the boost. I hope always to endulge the activities that gift me with extra spoons.