The land of December

We are — slowly — sending out holiday cards. They make no mention of a specific holiday or even New Year’s, so if it takes me until April to finish, I am still technically on time. 

The message on the back is short; no family update from us this year. It’s been a hard and complicated year for our crew, and if we can’t say anything honest, it’s better to not say anything at all. 

But in this newsletter, for those that have so loyally read and opened and commented and emailed me this past year, I am including my personal holiday note below, plus our family’s holiday photos. 

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Dear fellow feelers and poetry readers and disabled people and parents of young kids,

Happy Holidays. Wherever you are, I hope you have at least one moment of peace and joy today. It’s almost become trite to say it, but this season is tricky for everyone. For me, the normal holiday angst is amplified by some hard experiences over the last few Decembers. As it turns out, not only does my body keep the score, but it also keeps a calendar. 

In 2017, when Khalil was nine months old, our Oakland neighborhood caught on fire. David, washing dishes at the sink, spotted a fireball flying through the air outside our house, and, in seconds, a wall of flames began its approach. 

He ran to our bed, where I slept. “We have to go. The neighborhood is burning.” I am dizzy at night, but adrenaline kept me upright as we walked out the front door — David holding Khalil and our tiny dog Batman in my arms. Giant embers fell around us as we worked to open the gate leading from our front patio to the driveway. The lock was stuck. 

Weeks earlier, while on the coast, escaping the blanket of wildfire smoke in Oakland, we had read dozens of articles about how quickly a neighborhood can burn. About the lives lost as wildfires rushed toward homes and people and entire cities. 

That December 11, on our hill in Oakland, three houses were already burning, and the wall of flames was so bright that it looked like the morning. It only took seconds to open the gate, but those seconds live in my hands, my feet, and my racing heart. We didn’t have time. I jumped in the car, Batman and Khalil on my lap, as David sped away. I called our neighbors on both sides. “GET OUT NOW!! FIRE!!!” And then I dialed 911. 

Minutes later, a mile away, David parked. “We need to put Khalil in his car seat,” he told me. My arms were a vice, and I could not let Khalil go. “Drive more,” I demanded. Another mile down the road, and I could finally loosen my grip. We were safe. We had outrun the flames. 

“What is the chance we still have a house?” I asked David. “Oh, it’s definitely gone,” he replied. 

It wasn’t. It smelled charred for weeks, and eight houses around us burned, but miraculously, nobody was injured. Every one of our neighbors survived. 

But every December, as the anniversary approaches, I start to wake up more at night. Anxiety buzzes. It usually takes a few days of feeling off before I remember the fire. It’s better now than it was. I’ve worked hard on the trauma in therapy, and I have tools that remind my body and my mind:

It’s 2022. I’m in Canada. I am safe. 

I know I’m not the only one living in a weird mix of the present and the past this time of year. Every prior December piles on top of each other. All of the complicated family dynamics, illnesses, and expectations. 

And then, at the same time, everywhere we turn, it’s time for a year in review. I’m looking back at my year, but it’s hard to have much perspective from the land of December. And I’m planning for and dreaming of 2023 — I’ll turn 40! Hopefully, finish two books! — but my plans feel flat from inside my December worries. 

Last night, as I was trying to still my mind in order to sleep, I forced myself to think about the peonies that will bloom this spring. They are bombastic and elaborate and feel like the most ridiculous flower. And they only bloom like that — lacy and full — because of all the little ants who nibble at the bud. Don’t worry; there’s no metaphor here. The ants don’t stand for anything. It’s just nice to imagine all these tiny black ants on the peonies in our front yard. Thinking about the green balls that burst open for a few days every June. 

I always come back to that when my mind feels scattered. To the little details of our little world. The ducks riding the waves out back and the chipmunks who stole all our birdseed this fall. The friend, who, as I wrote this, dropped a giant croissant on my porch. The feel of Khalil’s head on my sternum while we watch cute animal videos on Twitter.

It’s 2022. I’m here. I’m safe. And I’m grateful for another messy year. Happy Holidays to you. Thank you, as always, for reading what I write. 

Love,

Jessica

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This month’s poem is a rerun, but it’s what I’m reading. 

Peonies
Mary Oliver

This morning the green fists of the peonies are getting ready
to break my heart
as the sun rises,
as the sun strokes them with his old, buttery fingers

and they open ---
pools of lace,
white and pink ---
and all day the black ants climb over them,

boring their deep and mysterious holes
into the curls,
craving the sweet sap,
taking it away

to their dark, underground cities ---
and all day
under the shifty wind,
as in a dance to the great wedding,

the flowers bend their bright bodies,
and tip their fragrance to the air,
and rise,
their red stems holding

all that dampness and recklessness
gladly and lightly,
and there it is again ---
beauty the brave, the exemplary,

blazing open.
Do you love this world?
Do you cherish your humble and silky life?
Do you adore the green grass, with its terror beneath?

Do you also hurry, half-dressed and barefoot, into the garden,
and softly,
and exclaiming of their dearness,
fill your arms with the white and pink flowers,

with their honeyed heaviness, their lush trembling,
their eagerness
to be wild and perfect for a moment, before they are
nothing, forever?