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Did you feel that?

Did you feel the mighty earth shake like a small, terrified child? Did you feel lightning and sparks strike all around us like a powerful storm? Did you feel my heart nearly beat out of my chest, like a thousand wild stallions thundering across a barren plain?

Please tell me it wasn’t just my imagination.

Please tell me that I didn’t make up something that felt so incredibly real.

This hasn’t been the first time for me. There have been many times before now, they just weren’t as pronounced. Maybe it started when you had the nerve to tease me about something nobody else did, and it forced me to laugh about it. It pissed me off like hell, but at the same time, gave me relief. Maybe it started when we studied together, burning the midnight oil night after night after night. Maybe it started when we went out to eat together on a regular basis. Maybe it started when you’d call me up just to say hi, just to hear my voice.

Maybe it never started at all.

Please tell me that I am more to you than someone to help you with school. Please tell me that I am more than just your study partner, more than someone you make bets with over who gets the higher grade. Please tell me that I am more than just another friend in the accounting department, more than just another classmate, more than just another pretty face.

I see it in your eyes sometimes when you look at me – they turn as soft and vulnerable as newborn kitten, as affectionate as anything I’ve ever seen. Don’t tell me it’s not there, don’t tell me it’s not real.

I know it’s for real, I can feel it as real and as surely as I feel the keys beneath my fingers.

I just need to hear it from you.

Tell me it’s real.

Show me that you aren’t as afraid as I am to say so.

This is absolutely beautiful and I wish I had the mad skills to write it but alas, I must give credit where credit is due. I stole it off of a facebook profile. I just loved it and wanted to share it.

Go placidly amid the noise and haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence. As far as possible without surrender be on good terms with all persons. Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even the dull and ignorant, they too have their story. Avoid loud and aggressive persons, they are vexations to the spirit. If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain and bitter; for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself. Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans. Keep interested in your own career, however humble, it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time. Exercise caution in your business affairs; for the world is full of trickery. But let this not blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals; and everywhere life is full of heroism. Be yourself. Especially, do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love; for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment it is perennial as the grass. Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth. Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in face of sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness. Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself. You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here. And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should. Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive him to be, and whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul. With all its sham, drudgery & broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be careful. Strive to be happy.
-----Found in St.Paul's Church

“Merry Christmas,” she said. The perfume that had grown so familiar to me over the years wafts to me as she pulls me in for an embrace, the seemingly frail woman possessing surprisingly strong hugs. I open the screen door and step into the warm house, expecting to see it open and welcoming, waiting for my family and my family only. The Christmas tree blinked in the corner, almost mockingly, presents underneath denying everything and anything that we had ever decided on.

 

What was this? I wondered. My cousin, her husband, my two aunts, and my uncle? Why are they all here at once? And why are there presents? Years upon years ago, we decided as a family that we would gather as a family a few weeks before Christmas and presents would not be exchanged. Not everyone had enough money, and we didn’t want to put pressure on them on a day that was meant to be about family anyways. This year, just like every other year, we gathered as a family a couple of weeks before Christmas and enjoyed a meal together. Afterwards, we spent time with each other and then went our separate ways. That was supposed to be it. So what is happening now??

 

My father walks into the room as the realization that dawned on me moments ago reaches him as well. I can see the light leave his eyes to be replaced with an angry glare, and I realize that this Christmas is not going to go well. My mother walks in and smiles, blissfully unaware of the underlying drama and broken agreement. We go through the motions, open presents that nobody asked for, take pictures, and altogether feel incredibly embarrassed that nobody told our part of the family that apparently we were doing presents this year. We were the only group that came empty handed, the only ones who didn’t bring anything for anyone else. What was the point of meeting two weeks before if we were only going to do it again on Christmas day?

 

I see my father massaging his temples from across the room. My mother looks unsure as to why he seems uncomfortable, she isn’t used to dealing with the drama on the other half of the family. Dad looks at her and shakes his head, muttering something under his breath. I lean in closer, trying to see what he is saying. He starts talking to my grandmother, shaking his head and gesturing sharply with his hands. What is this? Why do we have to fight now? It is Christmas, I want her to smile. I want her to be happy on this day, but she frowns. Is this my Christmas? Is this our Christmas???

 

Dad stands up, pleading that he has a headache and has to leave, although we have only been there for an hour. I help to clean up the wrapping paper, bunching it up and squeezing it as tightly as I can into the smallest space possible, letting out some of the stress and anxiety that I can feel building as we stay longer and longer. This was not what we planned. We were left out. Someone broke the agreement. Everyone broke the agreement. Nobody told us.

 

Dad is angry. Grandmother looks like she is about to cry, apologizing over and over. She has made us food even though we’ve told her time and time again not to make anything, and looks hurt when we nearly walk out the door without seeing what she made. I manage to eat nearly eight cookies, I don’t want her to feel hurt any more than I want us to feel awkward and embarrassed.

 

Too late.

 

We leave, and dad asks us how we feel on the drive home. My brother says he feels like the Indians, like treaties keep getting broken behind our backs. The humor helps lighten the situation for a little while, and I manage to laugh. Moments later, however, the tension and weight comes back when my mother points out that Christmas is about family. Despite the drama, despite the tension, for a few moments our grandmother was truly happy because her entire family was together on Christmas day. While we were busy feeling awkward and embarrassed, she was probably overjoyed that everyone was together.

 

My dad asks me for my opinion. Honestly, I don’t know what to feel. I’m angry because we have been left out and we have been embarrassed. I’m angry that we drove all this way two weeks before for what we thought was our Christmas gathering. I’m angry that they had numerous opportunities to tell us, but either lied about it or just glossed over it. But at the same time, so many people would kill just for an opportunity to be together with their family on Christmas day. So many people are in Iraq fighting a war, so many people are out on the streets with nothing, so many people have no place to call home and here we are worrying about drama. It seems stupid, but my pride won’t let me say so. I am hurt, I am embarrassed, that’s all I can think about.

 

The drive home seems far too long to be a mere hour and a half. My dad is upset, my brother is upset, my mother simply sits and listens. I put my iPod on Nightwish and blare the volume as loud as my ears can stand it. I don’t want to talk about it anymore. I don’t want to care. It’d be so easy to just be angry, but I can’t. This is my family, I want them to be happy and I feel like leaving the way we did ruined everyone’s Christmas, despite the fact that they might have deserved it for what they did to us. I hate this, I think to myself. My dad stops at the QT to pump gas. Why is he stopping? I just want to get out. I have to get OUT of this car. Why do I care? Why do I always care about others so much? It only hurts me in the end.

 

It hurts so much.

 

My brother, bless his heart, manages to break me out of my reverie by poking me relentlessly until I share half of my iPod headphones with him. He is slightly taken aback by the symphonic metal of Nightwish, being accustomed to gangster rap, but he says they are okay because they are a Finnish band and he has this idea that all things from Finland are divine. The subject changes to football conversation as my dad re-enters the car and we drive the last few minutes home. We arrive home, conversation is jilted and awkward. I think that my dad realizes I am upset. I walk by his office, he asks me what I really think, now that we are outside of the car and it’s just me and him. I feel awkward sharing my feelings with more than one or two people there, and he knows this. I tell him my conflicted emotions. He says don’t worry. Forget. Don’t worry. Forget about it. It doesn’t matter. It’s over. It doesn’t matter.

 

It’s over. Forget. We repeat the words like a mantra, like a prayer, hoping that repetition will be enough to make them real but sometimes it just isn’t. Here I am, the morning after, wondering if the same thing will happen over and over again. This same stupid chain, this same stupid drama. There are only so many Christmases we have left together as a family, this is not how I want to spend them. This is not what I want to remember. It’s not okay, and I won’t forget.

 

Merry Christmas.