Together in togetherness.

Laughter drifts down the hall and tinkles in from the living room to where I sit making it hard not to imagine five necks craned upwards towards the sinfully large flat screen watching a holiday movie in unison. Moved to take a moment of quiet on this joyful day, I am sitting here perusing pictures from the past couple of days and smiling. This is Christmas. Sushi with an aunt, movies, warm clothes, holiday parties, charger plates, driving to the country, crisp air, laughter. It is Christmas in the country and I woke up to the smell of bacon and dark coffee. Eggs benny for breakfast, coffee black as night, warm coffee cake, and fruit for miles. Laughter, full-swear/full-contact card games and then more laughter. We are a family of students; there is not a teacher among us (except maybe Cal, but he is lightening quick at explainations) and learning a new game is next to impossible.

Somehow the words are lost on me again, the need to express relaced with the need to be calm. I have been told to "slow down" on multiple occasions since arriving and am having a hard time following suit. My mind is somewhere else, treading quietly on new territory of potential. Christmas somehow makes me turn inwards, makes me watch my family with warmth and introspect from an arms length and somehow I always leave these gatherings, these weekends, feeling like I sort of missed the boat despite the fact that my person is heaving with love for them and a generous show of presents.

Yesterday a circle of women that I admire gathered like flapping hens in a warm kitchen. Dust settled, proverbial feathers came to a standstill, the rise of a story spread like wild fire and more flapping women moved in; getting tighter and closer and quieter. We love this, we feed off of the togetherness that Christmas brings, creates. Bodies everywhere, poker faces around a flimsy patio table no longer white, food coming and going from an impressive oven, greasy fingers, gyoza factory on the counter, wolverines around the gouda, hands flying, wine sipped, and stories swapped. We move in closer, as to not miss a beat. Our waists doing the Christmas dance and avoiding collisions and spills, the story hour brings out the dancer in everyone. And we always end up in the kitchen. One person begins to spin a tale and we clap in glee, color crimson or gasp wildly at all the appropriate times.

I have no idea what it is that moves me to tell all, to elaborate, to weave a tale so impressive it will make aunties run to their book editors, yelping in delight. As a younger generation in this line of impressive women, I feel it is my duty to up the ante. Give them something to pray about.

It always impresses me when people choose to live vicariously through others. I do it. These women do it. Our children's children will do it. I don't know what it is, but nothing fills me more than a circle of women who flap in a kitchen, rubbing their hands together in togetherness. Together in togetherness. It is real simple. This is what Christmas is for me. It is not necessarily about the food (even though the creamy onion, wanton, roasted squash, heinezoup, sour kraut soup bar in lieu of a turkey dinner slayed this year), the wine, the agressive three generational Scrabble, the music, the program, or the gifts. It is about the togetherness.

Go, and be together.