Christmas commotion

We received an invitation today to rally with friends in Naples. Earlier other friends pushed off from Canada to Hilton Head Island; they connected with us en route while driving in North Carolina. Yet another couple is ramping up to a winter sojourn in Portugal. My sister and her husband are making plans to go to California for a brief visit. Their daughter and her husband plan a trip to Taiwan. Meanwhile locally there was a dearth of activity. This partly reflects the uncommonly dreary weather today but more strategically heralds the uptick of anticipated visits from northerners immediately following Christmas. For my part I content myself to listen to Mozart’s Mass in C Minor as sufficient evidence of my preparation for the season.

We gloat upon our lack of necessity. It is not only Christmas which we side-step with deliberation but also Easter, Thanksgiving and birthdays generally. As my late father was wont to say, “Every day is Christmas!” It’s not entirely a malignant pleasure. We consider it redundant to exchange gifts. Instead we’re driven more by the dedication to buy what we want when we want it. In either instance the indulgence is not great, itself a collateral of the infection.

Before cherishing the elegance of Dame Kiri Te Kanawa I cycled the statutory 15 kms, gazed aimlessly across Sarasota Bay and afterwards swam in the pool. We have succeeded today to restore ourselves to accustomed habits and nutrition. I welcome the comfort of tradition with the resolve of an old dog.

There is a mist arising upon the boat slip. The winter solstice approaches noticeably, diminishing the hours of daylight to the point of objection. Our absorption is not however the upcoming visit from Santa Claus but rather a reflection upon what we expect to transpire in Key Largo next year. When once the sunlight hours return with widening display in the New Year our performance here will accelerate commensurately. Though it may sound peculiar to say so, we’ve already established events months from now, matters which bear no iteration but which nonetheless signal our own narrow focus.