Rolling Home

I’m on a train home (to Seattle) from Ontario after a Christmas where my Dad had all his kids and grandkids together — for the first time in 25 years.  There were 4 other family reunions, each unique, to take advantage of that fact.  It was a whirlwind.

I basically did the opposite of my husband, who had the peaceful, a-materialistic non-Christmas we usually enjoy together.

I conscience sacrificing future generations’ comfort for my own, this Christmas.

My Dutch sister was double-crossing the Atlantic anyway, and I’m overjoyed to have met her kids.  I savored my brother and his family, as well as my Dad & stepmom, who visibly revel in grandparenthood.

Obviously, my favorite moments were the moving, meaningful ones — regardless of the emotions shared.  I’m glad the poo-ha left room for what I wanted most for Christmas: simple celebrations of our interconnectedness.

I just want to put it out there that “Home for Christmas” can mean something other than your parents’ or your own house.  To me, it also means a whole village around each of us — a constellation of care.

Three weeks ago, on that first train out of Seattle heading all the way East, what I missed viscerally was my neighborhood — the place in the world where I practice belonging most.

(Hand-written en route on January 4th)

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