Christmas Tree- mendous

I have never been a keen celebrator of the festive period for as long as I can remember.  I think my Christmas aversion took root at an early age having witnessed the anger, ugliness and sheer horror that the stress of the whole package can elicit in people.  

There was the occasion when my beloved, bouncy dog bounced herself repeatedly up to sideboard level to devour a defrosting turkey.  The consequences were ugly. I can laugh now but we as a family are not able to discuss it en mass.  One parent kicked the dog (thank god they eat their own shit else she'd have died from salmonella for sure.  The dog that is, not the parent), pulled a knife on t'other parent, packed a bag and ran away.  Other parent chased whilst I took myself to bed.  Quietly.  We ate a frozen turkey pie that year.  I remained very quiet, right through my birthday (worst time of year to have it) and right through the subsequent 25 or so years.

And yet, despite the slight edge of permanent danger, my family's Christmas celebrations have at least been easy to observe from the sidelines and to tuck away the occasional 'snowball' (our festive treat. Do they even make Advocat anymore?).  Not so when fast forward 15 plus years to Christmases with ex-husband and his dear mama.  There was simply no escape.  From anything.  From the cold - I would wake up watching my breath curl around the fingers of Jack Frost; from the silence (only Radio 4 allowed, oh and the Queen's speech - NOT the time to announce that one is an anti-royalist); from the boredom (only one person may unwrap a gift at a time.  And write it down.  Oh. My. God.  I need a G&T); from the scrutiny - to how one reacted to presents, how one peeled vegetables ("such wastage dear, there are people starving in Africa").

I had two super festive periods with the ex-boyfriend however upon reflection they were mostly about him and his family.  To the extent that my surprise birthday present was his jaunt of preference that he revelled in whilst I gritted my teeth and did my damnedest to enjoy.  Whilst silently sobbing in the toilet.

This year however is a complete change.  Although I dread elements of what Christmas has represented in the past, I ambled today past a row of forlorn looking Christmas trees crying out for a careful owner.  I've been resisting for weeks and yet, this evening, I threw them my fourth nonchalant glance of the day, tweaked a needle and decided to go for it.  I haggled, got the one I desired and struggled home with it perched atop one shoulder.  It now stands proudly, twinkling with Christmas lights and the promise of Christmas Future.

The first home that I have owned deserves this. I deserve this.  This is my space, my life, and I'm going to enjoy it.

Just don't mention defrosting turkeys......

Sanctuary

Sanctuary: protection or a safe place, especially for someone or something being chased or hunted.  Home: someone or something's place of origin, or the place where a person feels they belong.

After a few tumultuous years I have finally found my sanctuary, my home.  And it feels indescribably good.  My overriding aim for 2008 was to buy my own flat.  My own space, no matter how small, that I could finally call my own.  That I could paint bright pink should I so choose (not that I would, you understand), that I could furnish to my own taste (once I have figured out what this is) and to which I can return every day, close the door and know that I have achieved this without the help of any man.

This wintry morning finds me daring to relax and to recover from a persistent cold, sat in bed, cocooned by sumptuously squishy cushions and watching the weekend's frost glisten as it slowly thaws from the patchwork of rooftops beneath me.  The only sound is the occasional chirrup from the blackbird perched on a bare branch of the treetop that brushes my bedroom window.  A tree that will mark the passing of the seasons in my new home - from barren winter, through budding spring, blossoming summer, to crisp and golden autumn and so, again, to winter.  Like that tree, I have finally put down roots and already I can feel the seeds of a new future starting to take sprout and to seek the light and energy to grow.

I have finally allowed calmness to enter my life and am learning that the one thing from which I have been seeking sanctuary is myself.  It has taken two and a half years but I am now at peace with my own company.  I have come to guard it almost jealously on occasion and of course, have to not allow that to become the route to reclusiveness.  But I hope that in finding peace, I have come to not only recognise my faults and idiosyncrasies but to accept them.  As long as they don't harm either myself or other people, they are simply akin to the colour of my eyes or the length of my limbs.  They are a part of me.

And as I start to relax the worries and free my mind from the agonising clutter, I note that I can again hear the wee characters that used to clamour for attention to be developed, to be sewn together to form cohesive plots rather than short, abrupt scenarios.  A dormant creativity is emerging and it is incredibly exciting. I am nervous to put pen to paper after such a long time and to see if I can translate the characters around me into participants in a story of my own weaving, but I think I have found the courage and head space to at least try.  To once again clutch a notebook and pen in my hand at all times and to observe, tickle my mind into creativity and to write.

Such is the power of having a home. A sanctuary of my own making.