Winter

The tree is bright with globes of silver, red, and white, and the snow reaches above the shin. The dog is sighing in hopes he might beg cutely enough for another treat, and the family sits in the kitchen, nibbling on cookies and resting after eating the giant Christmas meal of soup, salad, potatoes, roast pork, and roast lamb.

At least, that's what we do here.

I sit alone in an attempt to digest the past year and see if I accomplished anything to mention. I really haven't. This year has been a failure of sorts, of course with its small achievements and smiles.

I flew home to Ohio on Wednesday night, sick with a fever, a cough, and chills. In doing so, I realized that I'm slowly destroying myself. Currently working two jobs, I come home and feel the tingling luxuries of suburbia, where a college grad can rest and take her time finding a good job while she saves money to one day move out and buy a home. We know that I did not follow the Jesus of Suburbia slow guide to success in hopes of living in the same city as my family and the many people I remember from high school. I looked for lights, like a moth to a flame, with big ideas and unfathomable dreams beating like drums against the walls of my head.

But are my fears correct? Is there no rest for me? Am I doomed to live a life of the ordinary? Am I to work my fingers to the bone simply to pay the rent and the bills that keep me from sleeping in my car? Because the Lord knows coming home for more than a week at a time is not an option; I know my sluggish corpse of a body would grow easily accustomed to the swell of the leather couch and the love of the dog's kisses and the brilliant sound of the family's voices...

And my mind would waste away, more so than it already has. I'm tired, and therefore have no drive. Virginia Wolfe's theories of work and writing ring all too true in my mind. I stress more than anyone I know, except for my father, because I worry about the future. I'm a hesitant artist too concerned with where my next paycheck will come from and what it will cover.

I prayed in Church last night, really prayed after I received the thin wafer meant to represent or actually be the Body of Christ, depending on who you listen to. I normally recite a Hail Mary and an Our Father after this centuries old transaction, but this Christmas Eve felt different. I'm in dire need of a miracle. I don't mean a miracle in which God or an Angel hand me something to better my situation, simply a miracle of the heart or mind. I desperately need to start thinking differently. I want to be creative again, I want to have a job that I look forward to in the morning. I know we all struggle through hard times, and I know none of us are handed more than we can deal with, but this Christmas I just want to know what it is that I am meant to do.

I am frightened of my future. My brother tells me I don't really have one. Am I to be married to a poor actor? Am I to continue to work two jobs? Am I ever going to write something of meaning again?

I realize this blog entry, of several, has a self-pitying theme which I surely apologize for. But it is my blog. And at least I am writing.