blue blue blue blue christmas

Another holiday gone. My bookshelves are swollen, my waistband is tight.

I trimmed my little tree, sang my little songs and baked my cookies. I saw the tree in Rockefeller Center, both lit and unlit, I skated at Wollman Rink and, finally, I made it to the lovely candelit Christmas Eve service at All Souls.

This was harder than I expected it to be. I did everything right this year and still, by the time breakfast was over and gifts were half-unwrapped, I was ready to crawl under a rock and cry.

My Christmas this year was found in a few harp Concerti, a string of lights in the dark and a handful of people I love but couldn't seem to get close enough to. Followed by a full-on dead-of-winter retreat into the recesses of solitude. Friday I escaped from embrace to embrace at the Ukranian, Saturday I spent at home stretching and snacking and reading on the couch (but for the lovely rainy evening out that followed), and tonight (after malai kofta and cannoli with one of the oldest and dearest) it's just me and the tree and Bob Dylan b-sides.

One more to go, folks. I may just have to tango my way into Twenty Ten—with or without a suitable escort. Because, hey . . . sometimes it is in a room full of people that we find ourselves the most alone.