Its not the holidays that makes me melancholy.
There's this red, gaping ugliness inside of me that I can't seem to file. Don't know what to do with it, can't make it nice. A nice glass of wine doesn't help me forget it. Internal lectures and pep talks don't touch it. The children seem to exacerbate it, magnify it, poke sticks at it. Old coping tools seem to irritate it. Smooth, or chocolatey textures on the tongue slide past it. Saggy roles encase it.
Geneen Roth would say to simply Feel it. But I seem to be in a foreign country and I haven't learned the language.
I seem to have misplaced my manuel. Or missed that lecture. Or just don't get it.
Anne Lamott's favourite prayer may coincide with it.