My stack of books at my feet

I have a slight headache tonight.  There is a song playing through my headphones on repeat…quiet words strummed across space.  The music reminds me of something…something that has been on my mind a lot over the past couple of weeks…something that I can not write about yet.

There is a stack of books at my feet.  I am starting a study in fiction this month.  Theme:  Christmas.  The pile is mostly kid’s books that I have had since grade school, anchored by the inevitable Dickens.  I pull them out every year, completely disregarding reading level or quality, the same way I pull out my Chipmunk Christmas cassette tape and my Christmas television specials…Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, Frosty the Snowman, How the Grinch Stole Christmas.  It’s tradition, and I like tradition.  I hug tradition to my chest and let it dance me across the room.

Sing those old songs to me.  Raise my spirits and shake my November pains away. Heal wounds with love, soothe fear with faith, let sadness surrender to joy.

Here I am with my music on repeat, my stack of books at my feet.

Ready to begin.

 

 

 

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