Every time I think about deep-sixing Presbyfruit, I get mesmerized by the shiny baubles of Typepad's capabilities. I don't know why I feel I need a web presence that costs $4.95 a month and that causes me some stress. I went to Typepad this afternoon determined to cancel and get rid of this blog and there were so many cool new features---well, I'm still here. And doing another blog post.
I self-censor too much to get the emotional benefits that a hardcore, no-holds-barred private journal would provide. I bore myself sometimes with thinking about what to write. I really have no purpose, or focus. And did I say I bore myself?
What's happening with me: I finished my first semester in court reporting, where I earned my very first 4.0. Yeah, it's a community college and I already have my bachelor's degree and 36 hours toward a master's. Still, I haven't been in school for 20-some years and I was full of anxiety most of the semester. I had to meditate in my car before EVERY SINGLE class. Plus, I protein-loaded on class days for optimum intellectual performance. In other words, I took it real serious [sic]. Unlike most of my very young classmates. There is a definite generational gap going on. But that's for another post.
I also was determined to have the best damn Christmas ever. We erected a tree for the first time in nine years, played Christmas music non-stop, carefully planned the time we would spend with family. Kari made a standing rib roast and Yorkshire pudding on Christmas day. I ushered at the late Christmas Eve service. While I don't subscribe to much of what we Presbyterians are supposed to subscribe to, I do believe most whole-heartedly in the Light. That's what it's all about for me: the Light in the darkness, the Light that heals, the Light that saves, the Light that transforms.
I had a wonderful sense of that light this year, and I'm still holding on to it for dear life. My natural (and probably chemical) depression is a daily threat to that light, but I'm still trying.
You won't see me take the tree down---or turn off the music---for another week. Or longer.