Where Can I Find Christmas?

These are simply random Christmas thoughts, not a well-thought-out blog entry, but it’s Christmas Eve and The Most Interesting Dog in the World, Scuppers and Elmo and I are holed up in the back half of my childhood home, my mom and dad are in bed, and I’m not ready for sleep yet. There’s all this Christmas stuff whirling and twirling through my brain, and it won’t likely wind down for an hour or so. I figured I may as well write while I’m waiting.

* Being at my mom and dad’s house at Christmas is frustrating. I love them beyond measure, would die for them, count myself lucky to have been born to them, but I cannot believe that I am their actual biological child. They insist this is so. I feel almost a fish out of water in some ways, but in other ways I know that no one will ever be more a part of my essence than these people.

*Every year I have this moment when I feel like I’m the only one in my life who isn’t traveling for the holiday. Driving to Clearwater totally does not count. When this happens I feel sorry for myself for a bit, then I feel like I’m holding down the fort in the Sunshine State and keeping our Orange Christmas real for us Florida-philes.

*I used to love getting a big pile of presents under the tree. I miss that plastic tree. I miss the paperboard reindeer that used to plaster our walls. I miss believing in Santa Claus. I love that now I just love the magic of Christmas night – somehow it just always feels clear and perfect.

*I’m a grownup with big responsibilities and a real job (OK, I’m a writer, but it COUNTS, dammit!), but I love being with my mom and dad on Christmas. It’s “our” holiday – never was the same with anyone else. It’s been pretty great in the past, but when I’m home, it’s different.

*This is crap, but I’m publishing it anyway, because on Christmas, you get a pass.

*Merry Christmas.

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I write. I take pictures. I love my dog. I love Florida. My 2016 book, 'Backroads of Paradise' did really well for the publisher and now I feel a ridiculous amount of pressure to finish the second book.