Heresy, kisses, and cookies (among other holiday anomalies)
This season, while for some, an occasion of much joy and related celebration is, for me, a bit conflictive.
I don't see the black dogs of depression growling, nor do I find my economy taking a downward pitch (let's be honest, there is nowhere else to go), but the seasonal affective disorder, the waning light, the melodies that pursue us, stripped of all their innate beauty, and processed into electronic, high-toned mysery.
I drive past the cords of dead trees, that will dress themselves up as not dead, for a fleeting moment, and am saddened. The lackluster end of quarter slams into me, like a brick wall, no, a concrete one, with none of the nuanced and warm reds, just cold grey. And among the fatigue, and the long list of chores and tasks to be completed by unrealstic and self-imposed dates, I find a list, and it makes me laugh.
Friday mornings, my one day of not teaching, are dedicated to spending with I.'s class. Thursdays become my Fridays, and the mad dash to produce study guides so that my cherubs will be well prepared for their impending doom, brings nothing but mild irritation that Word and its ever-intelligent design corrects my words when I blink into a language that was unsolicited. Nevertheless, it is this very flaw of inception that brought the tiniest respite of mirth. And isn't that was this season is supposed to be about? ( Increased mirth, but sadly, increased girth...)
So, our cookie baking date was cancelled with P. and K. (or postponed, but if you are 6, almost 7, such trivial differences mean little when nothing will make you happy but to be with your beloved P.), and my Friday class participation will be as director of cuisine in the latke arena, but also too, there is a project, for which a list was made, a call to action by parents (such as myself) who are already strapped for time and money, but whose kids still trump the impossible scarcity of resources.
Peanut butter, Sugar, Sprinkles, Oats, Flour, Heresy kisses. Heresy kisses, I re-read, and giggle. "Heresy Kisses!" I howl with laughter, "Of course, it is brilliant!" Strange looks are sent my way, puzzled are the interlopers who stumble upon my mirthful moment.
What a perfect name, Heresy Cookies, to be eaten, of course, while illicitly kissing the missile... or toes of the supposed other.
I don't see the black dogs of depression growling, nor do I find my economy taking a downward pitch (let's be honest, there is nowhere else to go), but the seasonal affective disorder, the waning light, the melodies that pursue us, stripped of all their innate beauty, and processed into electronic, high-toned mysery.
I drive past the cords of dead trees, that will dress themselves up as not dead, for a fleeting moment, and am saddened. The lackluster end of quarter slams into me, like a brick wall, no, a concrete one, with none of the nuanced and warm reds, just cold grey. And among the fatigue, and the long list of chores and tasks to be completed by unrealstic and self-imposed dates, I find a list, and it makes me laugh.
Friday mornings, my one day of not teaching, are dedicated to spending with I.'s class. Thursdays become my Fridays, and the mad dash to produce study guides so that my cherubs will be well prepared for their impending doom, brings nothing but mild irritation that Word and its ever-intelligent design corrects my words when I blink into a language that was unsolicited. Nevertheless, it is this very flaw of inception that brought the tiniest respite of mirth. And isn't that was this season is supposed to be about? ( Increased mirth, but sadly, increased girth...)
So, our cookie baking date was cancelled with P. and K. (or postponed, but if you are 6, almost 7, such trivial differences mean little when nothing will make you happy but to be with your beloved P.), and my Friday class participation will be as director of cuisine in the latke arena, but also too, there is a project, for which a list was made, a call to action by parents (such as myself) who are already strapped for time and money, but whose kids still trump the impossible scarcity of resources.
Peanut butter, Sugar, Sprinkles, Oats, Flour, Heresy kisses. Heresy kisses, I re-read, and giggle. "Heresy Kisses!" I howl with laughter, "Of course, it is brilliant!" Strange looks are sent my way, puzzled are the interlopers who stumble upon my mirthful moment.
What a perfect name, Heresy Cookies, to be eaten, of course, while illicitly kissing the missile... or toes of the supposed other.
posted by ilana at 11:36 a.m.
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