Misty Night of The Soul

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Abstract

n garden jollity, decking their topiary with lights and baubles of shared ancestry and Xmas jumper unity, a live presentation of the John Lewis Christmas ad, while we might just make Poundland proud… at a push. Failing silent, the unspoken reality burdens the air as we all know that I, alone, am not enough.You know I try, you know it’s tough but the years have now passed and every time it’s a rough scramble for the pretense of The Perfect Christmas. I could claim it is because it’s just me but truth is, he hated Christmas trees.Well, my beautiful grown babies, let’s hanker no more, let’s just be together, in our shared, mismatched portrayal, let’s relish the mess that is our life and our true, deep love. We are three wild women, with frenzied ha

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ir, sailor's mouths who never colour within the lines. Our adopted tree is skewed, squiffy, and a little life-weary, with such eclectic curiosities bejewelling it, it defies a consistent theme. It is the perfect tree for us for we are the perfect concoction of human imperfection, an exquisite collaboration of shadowed traits with the sun beaming through our misty disappointment.Besides, we’re more Solstice girls, with our fire and our moon, spells, and intentions with crystals bathing in the luminous glow of cleansing planets. These musings have spoken to me with didactic wisdom; a mother’s love that empowers a young soul to drink every ounce of joy from even shadowed moments, to stand proud, owning their imperfect glory, will always be enough.</article></body>

We Are Enough…

A Poem of ‘Non-Christmas-Ad’ Families

Photo by Simon Berger on Unsplash

I strive to forge Christmas memories that when you are grown and flown, might fill you with warmth and pride, make your heart swell with tradition so you reminisce about the magic of your youth. As each year vanishes and you are taller, edging ever further beyond my reach, a very quiet space buried in grief, knows this to be an annual fail.

Driving through the mist to collect our tree after the ceremonial trauma of shit-clearing to forge space, we pass families all gathered in garden jollity, decking their topiary with lights and baubles of shared ancestry and Xmas jumper unity, a live presentation of the John Lewis Christmas ad, while we might just make Poundland proud… at a push. Failing silent, the unspoken reality burdens the air as we all know that I, alone, am not enough.

You know I try, you know it’s tough but the years have now passed and every time it’s a rough scramble for the pretense of The Perfect Christmas. I could claim it is because it’s just me but truth is, he hated Christmas trees.

Well, my beautiful grown babies, let’s hanker no more, let’s just be together, in our shared, mismatched portrayal, let’s relish the mess that is our life and our true, deep love. We are three wild women, with frenzied hair, sailor's mouths who never colour within the lines. Our adopted tree is skewed, squiffy, and a little life-weary, with such eclectic curiosities bejewelling it, it defies a consistent theme. It is the perfect tree for us for we are the perfect concoction of human imperfection, an exquisite collaboration of shadowed traits with the sun beaming through our misty disappointment.

Besides, we’re more Solstice girls, with our fire and our moon, spells, and intentions with crystals bathing in the luminous glow of cleansing planets. These musings have spoken to me with didactic wisdom; a mother’s love that empowers a young soul to drink every ounce of joy from even shadowed moments, to stand proud, owning their imperfect glory, will always be enough.