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—

I want to be a bear,

to growl a lot and wear

some fur, and fuzzy socks

with foxes’ heads on them,

and I want to curl in bed,

sleeping deeply until Spring.

Long nights are a-coming to get me,

the long dress rehearsals for

Friday’s merriments, the after-dinner mints

are out-of-bounds for the singer’s throat now,

just hot tea, honey and the occasional

self-slap across the face to stay awake.

The deep sleep won’t wait for me

after the big concert; the big dance troupe

awaits for its post-worthy pictures

I must take on Saturday night.

And Hanukkah! Sweet Hanukkah,

ah, those crazy 8 nights…

On Sunday I should join in the fun

at the in-laws; no, I haven’t forgotten them.

Words come out in spurts,

as I try to capture and hold them still

for long enough, so I can do my work,

my head still spins, and the blues

play loudly in my head,

coloring my mood to rare indigo,

during these times of sheer madness

when peace and love should be

the only things of importance.