The Ghosts of Christmas

Christmas is upon us. The eve when the star appeared over a stable to signal the coming of the Son of God is here. It is a time of family, of giving, of reflection, and of love. Granted, most of these coincide. But my question is this. If all of these things make up the spirit of Christmas, does the exclusion of one also exclude the entire spirit? This is what it seems to me, though I am not entirely sure why.

As I've grown, in age, experience, and knowledge, the spirit has left me. Christmas Day almost seems an inconvenience more than a day of giving. Yet I believe it is merely that what I perceive more closely as my family has changed. Of course, my blood relatives, my parents and my brother and sister, are still family. But I have grown apart from them to a much greater degree than I expected I would, and in a much shorter time period. The people I love and spend the majority of my time with are what I believe I need to recapture the spirit of my lost childhood. It has only been a week and a half since I left those same people, and I have missed them from nearly the moment I left.

If only those same people could be a part of my Christmas, I'm sure I would feel the same excitement waking up Christmas morning that I did when I was younger, believing that Santa Claus had left everyone lots of presents. I miss that excitement, and I would do anything to recapture it.

The Nature of my Spirit

A light rain falls. It wets my hair, though the hood of my sweatshirt supposedly protects it. I walk along a darkened lane between the headstones; never frightening, they now generate a certain friendliness as they signify that I am almost home. The rain falls a little heavier, knocking the autumn leaves to the ground. Brown, orange, red: any number of variances of these colors swirl around me, leaving me feeling vaguely like one of them. Is this an omen of falling...or failing?

Darkness is complete, above and around me. The misty lights of electric torches shine weakly on the many-times crunched leaves beneath my own feet. I see some kind of symbolism in this, though I do not recognize it. But for some reason, an alien thing inside me awakens, though it never sleeps for long. Tears well up in the corners of my eyes, though I mightily try to hold them back. The fresh rain mixes with the salty tears streaming down my cheeks that have no origin or purpose.

Such is the nature of my spirit these days.