Monday started with a car crash— I was t-boned by a car that was speeding through a red light. Lots to say about that later, but in short, I feel a little like I was just in another crash on Tuesday.
Similar shock. Similar confusion. What happened? Why is everything blurry? Did I do something wrong? What is the damage? How much just changed? Where did that come from? How did I not see? I am hurt, but where exactly? Who else is injured? There is so much to do. So much to feel.
Today is Wednesday and my birthday. I usually throw a party for all the people I love. But not today. Today I just need to recover from both of the crashes. I stayed up until 2:30 am. I woke up feeling dread. I didn’t want to get out of bed. Then I started receiving messages from around our neighborhood about our tree. Messages like “Your tree gives me hope and tears at the same time. Thank you for being lovely people. What a hard day.”
We have a 50-foot Christmas tree in our yard with 3500 Christmas lights on it. It is over the top, even for me, this Rockefeller Plaza-style tree in the middle of a dark wooded neighborhood in Montana. We usually turn it on around Thanksgiving and leave it lit up for the winter. I figured my family lit it during the night as a surprise but I had been awake most of the night. When I asked my husband what time he woke up to dig out the extension cords, he said he hadn’t lit the tree. We scrambled out of bed like little kids on Christmas and there it was, lit in full. And there we were, upright.
In my book, I have a chapter called, “There’s this tree and that is something” about my mom, her love of Christmas lights, grief, and this very tree. It was as if she had lit it herself. It doesn’t change any outcomes or damage, but it does change this small corner of this dark night.
There is so much to feel. So much to do.
So much missing. So much lost.
We are not the people I had hoped.
Drive safe. Be careful and care-full. Love your neighbors. Light what you can.
So much more soon.
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Sending you love, mama. Permission to make yourself a charcuterie board + bask in the glow of those lights with your people. xo
Light what you can....
MIL opened cherry blossoms for us the night of her funeral. I'm the least woo-woo person I know, but those blossoms did open and your tree lights went on. Perhaps there is hope? Meanwhile, we light what we can.
(and, ouch!)