I have the December
blahs. An end of year ennui (I’ve never used that word before!). Tired of the 9
to 5 treadmill, sick of sitting inside on a sunny day, hurry up holidays, what
have I done with this year?, December blahs. Actually I probably had them in November,
what with that wretched cold, but yes … blah.
The weeks go fast
and the weekends even faster. In the evenings, I don’t want to go to bed; I’m
happy curled up on the couch with a magazine. In the morning, I don’t want to
get out of bed, because the predictability of each day, whether it’s chores at
home or going to work, are all that await.
And I don’t feel
like Christmas. There, I’ve said it, to someone besides my mother. Admittedly,
I don’t ever feel much like Christmas as I get older — I think it’s great if
you’ve got little children, or the true religious significance of the season resonates
with you. But mostly now, Christmas looks like endless catalogs in the mailbox,
junk for sale in the shops, and TV ads of Curtis cooking a ham on the barbie.
I’m not completely bah-humbug — if, amongst the chaos and commercialism you
find meaning, I applaud you. But me, not so much.
All I want for
Christmas this year is a pavlova, and so does dad, and mum reckons she can do
that for us. I’m sure a pav will be like a sponge cake — so easy to make, why
don’t we make them more often? Then again, only once or twice a year, at Christmas
or birthdays, it will retain that aura of rarity and specialness.
So I’m looking
forward to my summer holidays, to re-charging my physical and emotional
batteries. Reviving my yoga practice, which has slipped away in recent months;
that’s good for a stiff body and creaking soul. Reading something longer than the clothes
credits in Vogue, which is all I can manage at the moment. I have Nigel
Slater’s newest kitchen diaries from the library, and I find his writing so
calming and thoughtful; months ago, I bought Michelle Crawford’s inspiring
account of creating a new life in the Huon Valley, and I’d like to crack that
open.
I also love being
outside in my garden in the summer months, pottering about as much as possible.
There’ll be lots of watering, because it’s so dry, and has been for months. That
is not so uplifting — I don’t know where the water goes, and I honestly don’t
know how the plants survive. I’ve got peas and beans that refuse to germinate,
but a scattering of self-sown tomatoes with fruit on them. In gardening, you’re
not always the one in control. You have to take the good with the bad.
And I’m hoping I’ll
find some fresh energy for Dig In. I love this small but thoughtful community
that has welcomed me here — that’s you — but the December blahs have made it
increasingly hard to write meaningful posts. I always want to say more than just
‘Here’s a cake I made’, but that’s all my brain cells can come up with right
now.
So enjoy the rest
of your December, your 2015; I hope your celebrations are filled with joy.
Thank you for your support at Dig In, and for showing me new and marvellous
worlds through your own thoughts and messages and blogs. After a good off-line,
real-life, fresh-air break, I’ll see you in 2016.
