December Already

I received a Christmas package in the mail from my Mom and Dad, full of cookies and candy and decorations and, best of all, Christmas music. I may be the only one of my friends who still loves Christmas music, but I hold fast to the belief that it is wonderful, magical, altogether lovely. Maybe it's just that I am one of those peculiar people who had a blissfully happy childhood, but I think there is something to be said for maintaining the innocence that allows us to enjoy the trite and cheesy kitsch of life that most people, so set on seeing The World As It Is, choose to regard with such disdain. Of course I could just be trying to defend my affinity for sappy movies, happy endings, and all things Christmas. But I proceed.

It's odd though, I can't seem to listen to the music of my memory without feeling, of all things, sad. Nostalgia is a nasty little illness. The unfortunate byproduct of said happy childhood is this nagging feeling that something has been lost. I know I'm not the only one who's felt this way, but sitting in my apartment by myself, decorating a miniature Christmas tree and listening to Nat King Cole, it feels like I am. Is adulthood just meant to be loneliness? I'm not a lonely person at all; I have an incredible family, great friends, and plenty of people to talk to--but on certain nights, in a certain mood, with a certain scent or a certain melody, I feel so disconnected from everything else, almost lost. Maybe I took a wrong turn somewhere way back, and if I'd gone the other way there would be newness in every minute rather than this constant tug-of-war between experiencing the present with joy and excitement and thinking of the past with sadness and regret.

I know I'm taking a bittersweet mood and waxing it to death here, but I'm not sure what else to do with it. I'm so accustomed to bringing these feelings to God, these inklings and yearnings all too big for me, and asking Him to make sense of them, to bring my life back, somehow, to that place of security, to return to me whatever it feels like I am missing. There is such a comfort in being able to do that. To trust in this Being, this Power that is working everything out for good just for me. There's a promise in it that has made these moods--which come all too often to me--bearable. But now, now with this handful of doubt I'm dealing with, there is only me to go to, which doesn't help at all, since I have this strange feeling that it's me that's the problem from the start. I guess what I mean is, while nostalgia for most people may be warm and fuzzy and merely bittersweet, for me it is all these things, coupled with this tiny little pocket of hopelessness. And when I have to sit, listening to "O Come All Ye Faithful," and secretly, quietly praying that This Whole Thing is true--whereas I used to be able to fight this tiny pocket off with such confidence--the hopelessness feels like it's gaining a bit of power.

Enough of this. This is a happy day. I have cookies to munch on, a party to plan, a test to study for, a visit from my best friend to look forward to, and I'm going home in less than two weeks. What's the sense in these drops of despair?