Either it’s old age playing catch-up or it’s the time of (this particularly painful) year that has me oozing sop all over this page. This post may go down when I see it in the stark light of the morning, so don’t yell if you find it gone.
One of my (many) pet peeves is symbols. You heard me. And, by extension, symbolism. I have a theory about how the human race thrives on symbols because they help us make sense of the world and compartmentalize ideas/objects/people into neat little pockets of supposed comprehension. What I get annoyed with is how we use symbolism as a crutch that prevents us from thinking abstractly, out-of-the-boxedly, individualistically.
Now scratch everything you just read. Because for the first time in my adult life, I willfully created a symbol. Humbly. Out of sheer need. The need to hope, wish and connect. To do something with my hands that would help heal my heart. For the first time in my adult life, my annual Christmas tree routine took on critical, absolutely-must-do-or-I’ll-bust-all-my-blood-vessels proportions. And I dragged an already willing Boy by his full head of hair through an elaborate trim-the-tree ceremony because I had to (gosh I can’t believe I’m saying this, someone shut me up, please!) perform an act of love and meaning. I decorated this tree like my life depended on it. And, with the Christmas cake I’m going to ingest today, I also eat my words. Okay, I hereby ban myself from this blog.
Merry Christmas, folks. Here’s the tree in question. I’m off to pray for peace and sanity.
Credits: The Boy’s Olympus E-520 DSLR, in his hands.
P.S. Click on the volume icon (top left hand corner of the picture album) to play Faith Hill’s ‘Joy to the World’ as you view the pictures.
Wisdom Wears Neon Pyjamas 
Vox populi