Over the last few years, my trips to the mountains have become few and far between. Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, I can’t decide which, I’ve become increasingly more embedded in Baltimore. It was just a few short years ago that I made threats of all levels (serious, idle, petty, etc.) that I’d pack up my shit and move back to the Carolinas where life felt quieter; more peaceful and tolerable. Where I was sure the grass was greener. And though I joked about the double-wide on the back of my mom’s property, it would be a lie to say I hadn’t actually thought about how to make it look “less trailer-y”, just in case. But now that Baltimore is home, it has become harder to pick up and head south on a whim. It’s no longer as easy as unplugging the refrigerator in my dorm room, shoving all of my dirty clothes into the backseat and drinking three red bulls to drive through the middle of the night. Oh no. Now there are bills to pay before I leave town. And phones to forward. And a dog to worry about. And “out-of-office” email statuses to put in place. Not to mention the compulsive need to clean my house before I leave it—because apparently once you become a “grown –up”, it no longer becomes acceptable to bring home dirty clothes for the holidays (and heavens knows, no more dirty dishes…last time I did that I really got the stink eye). Prepping to go out of town for anything more than overnight requires at least three days of planning and list-writing. Oh the epic lists I’ve written.
Yesterday I began one such journey, and made the ten-hour trek south for Christmas. Winding down the Shenandoah and into the Blue Ridge, I was remembering how beautiful this drive was just a few short months ago. Back in October, autumn had taken those hills hostage and turned every last leaf a vibrant color before letting them go. Now those leaves were gone, quickly turned into dust and mulch. Now, in December, the hills were speckled with the slightest dusting of white snow, as if a baker had been flying above and had accidentally dropped a pound of confectioners’ sugar gently over the rolling peaks.
And though I despise these long drives, mainly because I despise driving, I’ve almost become dependent on the built-in reflection this time alone in the car affords me. This time to let my brain talk as much as it needs to, without anyone calling the cops to report a crazy lady talking to herself. I just assume everyone driving past me thinks I have on a wireless handset, or that I’m singing out loud to the radio. The drive north is much less satisfying. Once I get about halfway through Virginia, the landscape becomes increasingly less interesting and the mountains get smaller and smaller in the rear-view mirror. But heading south is another story all together. The mountains get bigger and more beautiful with each mile marker. By the time I get to Tennessee I often have the urge to pull over and just get outside. I want to inhale deeply and purge all the toxicity that builds up in my little city brain. I want to find a way to wrap the purple-blue mountains up into a little marshmallow that I can eat. Like wonka-vision.
And because these trips are seasonal, they often coincide with a holiday, which generally involves family, which generally means things get complicated, which generally means I’m anxious for days leading up to my departure. By the time I hit the mountains I’m desperate to release my anxiety. To just pour it out in the river and watch it rush away in the blue-green murk of the rapids. To feel comforted. To let the mountains absorb my burdens. To carry what feels so heavy.
Christmas has notoriously been a hard holiday for me. Which is not to say that I don’t enjoy Christmas. In fact, it’s quite the contrary. I recognize that I’m almost 28 years old, but I can’t make that six year old girl inside me contain my excitement over Christmas morning. When I was little, I’d wake up at 4 in the morning and was forbidden to actually touch the presents. Instead, I’d quietly tip-toe my wild-curly-haired self out into the living room and sit on the couch and just look at them all with awe. All the precious boxes so tidily wrapped and carefully stacked. Then I’d sit and watch black and white movies on the television until it was bright enough outside and I could get away with waking up my college-age sisters without them biting my face off. Come to think of it, it’s probably no wonder my siblings didn’t have kids until their 30s. I probably was the best birth control they could have had. I was totally oblivious to any signs of hangovers or a lack of desire to “care about Christmas”. Oh no. I cared about one thing and one thing only. PRESENTS. And I’d like to think I’ve finally put that little girl to bed, but to be honest, I’m just as excited to open presents tomorrow as I ever was. Although perhaps far more aware of what presents COST now that I have to pay for them, too.
But in more recent years, the holiday has become harder, despite the little girl inside me who still believes. For my family, it isn’t as simple as everyone gathering in one place to celebrate. Christmas, and most holidays, get spread out over several days (sometimes weeks), and several cities, and I sometimes find myself eating three or four “Christmas dinners” before it’s all said and done and the ball drops for the New Year. We’re the modern American family, facing the modern American dilemma, in all our re-married with kids glory. Christmas gets more complicated, too, because it’s no longer the focus of the other 11 months of the year. Other obligations pile up, you run out of time to properly Christmas shop (and you never had the money to begin with), and you start to realize just how much crap there is out there to buy and by given (and just how much YOU DON’T WANT any of it).
In just a week, I head back to West Africa with 18 undergraduates. While I’m so excited, this simultaneously makes me enormously anxious because I’m basically responsible for ensuring that these guys all come back in one piece, and that they’ve all had a relatively awesome experience, and that no one is pregnant or married. This requires months of planning, hundreds of neurotic, alphabetized, highlighted lists, and lots of white wine (for consumption during planning, not teaching). But it’s also more than that. Though I’ve traveled back and forth many times now, I can’t ever seem to quite prepare myself enough for what really happens to my spirit in this place called Ghana. I have to begin to prepare my heart for what I see, for the unthinkable poverty I encounter and for the breathtaking beauty that I see.
And I’m preparing myself for the next few days of siblings and too many cookies, and the noise of children happily ripping open wrapping paper. And drinking too much wine and eating too much butter. And trying to make sense of it all just a week before heading to a place where what I have can make me feel heavy and glutinous. Where the giving I’ve done in the holiday season can leave me feeling shallow and vain. But where I feel alive in a way that is raw and enlightening.
And somehow it's already Christmas day (although it is still very, very early). And frankly, I'm in a bit of a state of disbelief. At my feet, the dog has buried herself under a handmade quilt and snores in a slumber that is deep and heavy. I've just come home from midnight service, wrapped a few last minute gifts, and am sitting awake in a fit of anxiety trying to make myself go to sleep. Trying to remind myself about the six year old girl in my soul who will wake me up in just a few hours to go and sit and admire the gifts. About the little girl inside me that still believes.
Merry Christmas, friends. Wishing you and yours a blessed Christmas and health, happiness and peace in the 2011. And may we all believe just enough to keep us honest.
