Scandinavians are not the only worshippers of Yule.
Tonight will be glorious, even in Sweden, where darkness
is constantly constant like the heaviest of black, wool veils,
where ceremonial candles are finally lit with happy chanting.
Evergreens are brought inside to protect the home with ancient magic,
from the cold, brutal winter until Spring.
The Yule log is burned in the fireplace, in remembrance of Celtic sacrifices,
for another kind of protective magic.
Now Europeans drink wassail and stare at the fire,
silently making wishes for the upcoming year as they play cards,
waiting for all the candles to burn out.
Yesterday I picked up two forgotten, cut Christmas tree branches from the street.
I took them in, and smelled the evergreens deeply before mounting them
upon a framed portrait by my front door.
I hope the Yule/Evergreen magic would protect us now.
Anxiety is the demon of the season, and it has struck me down hard,
unrelenting, without gentleness or joy.
My chest feels as it’s been jumped upon by a tiny, invisible baby kangaroo,
(between embryotic and grown kid stages),
my head is filled with swirling dust.
My place has been crying out for attention, it’s been weighed down and ill.
I’ve been ill, slowly covered in dust,
my love’s bubble of denial has finally burst,
he sees the crap carnage, and has sprung to action.
The face of the red Persian rug in my foyer is finally uncovered,
we haven’t seen it in an entire year.
Wendy the home organizer is coming this weekend
to help send and store the junk and unneeded items away,
the 3-day weekend contains Christmas, so we can
clean and sort on the free day, the holiest day of the year.
In the darkest and longest of nights, it is holy;
the light will break through as the junk
of the last year is cleared away—