Every year when December rolls around, I start to engage a set of muscles that I don’t use on a daily basis. Energy anatomy designed to cinch me together when a dozen rubber balls are loose in the room and I’m trying to track them all. Muscles that flex in one direction, move with the increased speed and spiked energy of the month, brace for moments of over-stimulation and left-fielders, while at the same time stretching along another trajectory to assert some measure of calm and equanimity, balance the gyrations and gymnastics with ground.
AS MUCH AS I’D LIKE TO SAY THAT I’VE MASTERED DECEMBER, PUT IT IN ITS PLACE WITH THE ELEGANT INFLUENCE OF FINELY-TUNED MINDFULNESS THAT ALLOWS ME TO SURF ABOVE THE FRAY, THAT WOULDN’T BE PARTICULARLY HONEST.
I still walk into stores with blaring holiday tunes and have to instigate a recovery regime afterward. I still smush together a few too many of those once-a-year-so-why-not-at-Christmastime get togethers that leave me needing an entire day to myself to settle the adrenaline response. And there’s always the impact of energies emitted into the collective field, a melding of everyone’s December-ness into a singular end-of-year frequency that is both piercing and numbing at the same time.
That said, I’ve also come to embrace December as the month that can instantly grow me two sizes up if I stay present and responsive. Prepared to adjust at any given moment not in mock surrender, an animal playing dead in order to survive, but with focused intent to sharpen my inner martial arts skills.
So rather than jeopardize my wellbeing by trying to ban the unbannable or shutting myself into an expertly-calibrated quiet room for thirty-one days, I direct my energy into parries, sideways shifts and rolls, owl-level listening and sonar pings that build emotional tone and refine neurology. Add to that a smattering of carefully-placed restoration periods and I find myself feeling more nimble than brittle. Holiday innervation thwarted with intentional action.
What inevitably rises as the most valuable tool in my December toolbox is what I generally refer to as The Holy.
Undertakings and internal settings that allow me to move deftly in the December dojo. Remain responsive and light on my feet while simultaneously aligning with the slow, gentle walk toward Winter Solstice. A quiet yet steady pace that counterbalances the sprint of the season.
THE HOLY IMBUING ME WITH INSPIRATION TO METAPHORICALLY ENTER THE CHURCH, SETTLE ON A MEDITATION CUSHION, UTTER A PRAYER INTO THE SILENT SPACES AS LIFE SWIRLS AROUND ME. ONE PART OF MY INTERNAL ORCHESTRA ABLE TO REST WHILE ANOTHER IS CARRYING ON.
It’s an art, to fuse the holy and the hectic. One that requires clear presence and a willingness to be led more often than to lead. To actively seek the blend of these seeming opposites that act as weft and warp of a complete tapestry. Make choices that allow for skillful settling into the sacred spaces that lie between temptations to unravel –
A respectful bow to the silence nestled among a spill of overlapping happy hour words, a shooting star arcing above jacked-up holiday light displays, the whisper-soft departure of a loved one from this lifetime while Bing Crosby makes merry next door.
A large part of the practice is knowing your medium.
Getting clear about what raw materials allow you to enter into holy spaces without much effort so that you can invoke them on a moment’s notice, between the necessary leaps and twists. The potency of The Holy lying in ubiquitous, though never casual, application so that you don’t feel like you need a vacation once January rolls around.
Altars with small bells and spice-colored candles. A soft silk cushion atop a well-worn yoga mat. Long breaths and longer internal reminders for patience. Sounds of a sonorous, soothing cello when out and about in the car. Views of snow-capped mountains and feet placed on needle-laden trails. Roasted green tea. Writing for writing’s sake to catch the day’s overflow. Cooking a stew with twenty ingredients that tame a wandering mind. Talking slowly to a friend who isn’t in such a hurry. Calling on angels. Calling on ancestors. A drop of cedarwood oil just before bed. Stopping mid-stride to remember and reset. Watching the chickadees flit and flurry for ten minutes straight. Sleeping an extra hour without regret. Drawing in the sweet pine scent of a living room Christmas tree.
That’s a small slice of my growing list of holy things and doings for the month. I hope it inspires you to curate your own list, wield The Holy as wayfinder and waymaker, an ever-present, stabilizing force for your upcoming December.
