Grinch’s lament

Days are suddenly shorter,
nights are dark and cold.

Squirrels skitter away,
juncos appear.

Everything in nature is telling my body
it’s time to slow down,

the year is ending.
I am already grieving

the election
(which nature knows nothing of),

already preparing for the worst,
and here come the so-called holidays

with their misplaced cheer
and shallow promises of joy,

pressuring me to prepare,
and make my much-needed break

feel like more work.

My partner and I feel “done” with this year.

Not “done” as in, we’re giving up and we don’t care anymore –

but “done” as in, not going out of our way to do big things that are overstimulating, that aren’t necessary, that don’t really bring us any joy.

“Done” as in, we’ve done most of what we needed to do, and now it’s time to rest.

The year is ending, the days are short, nature is telling us it’s time to rest. We need to rest, so we can come into 2025 feeling strong and restored.

I don’t know if I sound all “old man yells at cloud,” but the holidays get earlier every year. Halloween started in August. Christmas ads and decorations started in mid-October.

And I like holidays – I promise I’m not (always) a grump. I just want simpler ones, less connected to money and keeping up with the Joneses, and more connected to nature and simple joys.

Something a little special and unusual, not exhaustingly extravagant.

A little Christmas tree that could fit on a tabletop, as opposed to one that's taller than me.

All I want for Christmas is to see children smiling and happy. And maybe bake some warm cookies with gooey chocolate chips.

This Thanksgiving, I just want time to reflect on all the things I’m actually thankful for, and not see images of romanticized colonialism, or ads for Black Friday, or have to smile when someone says something offensive or unnecessary.

At family get-togethers, I don’t want to go over all of our opinions on the election and the president. I’d rather be making safety plans and reassuring each other that we have each other’s backs.

I am stretched thin, I am grieving, I crave quiet. And I write all this, knowing I will probably cave anyway;

I will probably still end up going to all the get-togethers, and make the small talk, and rush to buy gifts to prove my loved ones that I care about them.

I don’t want them to feel that I’m not there. Especially not now.

But what would truly feel holy, is for the noise to stop. A couple silent nights. A time for us all to slow down, reflect, and just be.