It is cold as shit in here and I have a Calypso earworm in my head. Daylight come and I wanna go home. Like reggae, it’s impossible to be anything but happy when the music is blaring. And blaring it is. I want to go home — home where things are organized and orderly and sane. I am home, but my home is anything but what I need it to be. Still, I’m oddly cheerful.
Greek mythology says Calypso was a nymph who kept Odysseus on her island for seven years promising him immortality, but he preferred to go home instead. I can understand that. I want to go home too, but technically I am home. Home is just not very homey right now.
I’m in the kitchen turning the calendar to December 28th and counting the days until Old Christmas – January 6th. In the Appalachian tradition, epiphany is Old Christmas. It is rooted in legend that is the day the wise men gave their gifts to Jesus and the day the ancients gifted one another.
Every year I say I am going to celebrate Old Christmas in some way. How? I don’t know yet. Nine days to figure it out. I’m full of things I want to do, going to do, think I should do, and must do. I’m waiting, evidently, for a miracle to kick my executive function in the ass and motivate me. The burst pipes of yesterday may have been that kick – intrapipe ice dams are a metaphor for the past few years.
I’m sitting in the kitchen and looking at the mess I must clean up before the plumber can even get in here to attempt repairs. All of this could have been avoided if I’d had a fireplace like I’d wanted. But the ex-husband and the home insurance agent said NO!!! “No” capitalized with exclamation points. It’s easy to blame the past. Easy to blame others. Too easy. This is all my fault. I have been inert for too long. It is so past time.
And so, my furnace doesn’t work correctly, my pipes are full of ice, my house is a mess, and about the only disaster that hasn’t stricken is the smell of unwanted smoke. I shouldn’t tempt fate. One step at a time. First the plumber. Then the heating guy. This too shall pass. It’s just a process. One leading to growth, I hope.
It’s time. Yes, it is. 2022 has been a disaster, but then I think of Julien, that little Charmer born in May. My grandchild. The one I waited for so long. And a charmer he is with his infectious smile and baby giggles. I wish that situation was different, but oh how I love him. How I love my son. How I love.
I wish they were closer. I wish they were here. I wish I was there. Stop. “Stop wishing your life away, Connie. Live it!” I hear my inner wise woman. I should listen to her. I want to be at home. In my house, my body, and my mind.
I have been fortunate. I love people. They love me. That should be blessing enough. But I want it all. Always have, always will.
2023 has to be better if only I correct my attitude. That’s the real problem. I have not been grateful for all that I have been given. I have been whiny and focused on what I don’t have.
I have Calypso in my head, a family, a house, and a future of love. A job that gives me satisfaction. A vocation that thrills me. Family and friends aplenty. I am blessed. 2023 will be a good year. As the evangelicals say, “Name it and claim it.”
Here’s to 2023 may it be full of cheer! For you and for me. And may you be at home.