Christmas wishes part II

This is also a pretty good aspect of Christmas though, it has to be said.

Christmas Wishes.

There's something about Christmas that is different to any other holiday.

Maybe it's the atmosphere- the warm nights by the fire watching Noel's Christmas Presents (now All Star Christmas Presents) whilst the ground outside is frozen beneath a blanket of snow. Maybe it's the dark nights; the busy evenings by the German market, holding cups of coffee and singing to carols in the town square; covering the lounge with lights whilst outside the shadows cover the world by late afternoon. Maybe it's the excitement on my kid neighbors' faces when I tell them stories about Santa and his reindeer when I'm baby sitting.
Whatever it is, the magic of it just can't be bested or even matched. I just love how when the sun goes down, the lights come up and the music goes on. From the mantelpiece, a candle flickers and there's a certain spark which no words can describe- not a physical spark, but an emotion which fills me from my finger tips to my toes. I feel like there's something bigger coming.

And there is.

It starts getting to a point in mid November (yes, early bird, 11th month) where I begin to think about how I'll decorate my room, make my own little Christmas world. I begin to plan what presents I'll get for which family and friends. Which neighbors will get wine and gingerbread and which ones will get a card and a cheeseboard; which teachers at school deserve a card and which ones deserve a snow angel by their car. I begin to get an inkling of magic- the adverts, the shops putting fake snow in their windows, you know- the commercial stuff.
Then, around early December, going out to the shops and doing the Christmas shopping. Driving out to the Christmas tree plantation to pick out the best of the bunch and chop it down, before stopping off in the cafe for a cup of hot chocolate and fantasies of buying my own little cottage up there and living around the ever-present symbolic Christmas symbols of trees. The late evening shopping hours, Christmas light switch on's and going to see live music in the square, with the Fairytale of New York being played in every other shop. The attitude of others around me- strangers- begins to change. I hear something different when a person says 'thanks' to a bus driver, when a mother hands her child his child a toy and talks to him about it being very nippy, even though he probably hasn't even sat up by himself yet. There's something different within society which creates the welcome atmosphere of miracles, where people stop and toss a couple of coins into a buskers' guitar case, or give a tea to someone sitting on a park bench by themselves, or even put thier spare change in that charity box Santa's holding by the door of Sainsbury's for a littleknown charity- where people begin to accept others and show a love and give generously to those they don't know.
By mid December, the world's gone into a flurry of shopping and advertising and running errands for elderly neighbors and trying to find the best of the best for Christmas dinner even though it 'all should have been sorted weeks ago' and suddenly the world forgets what was holding ties to everybody in town just a few days previously- giving. Suddenly it's all about throwing the best Christmas work do, and getting the best offers for the presents for those aunties and uncles no one really knows all that well but feels obligated to buy for- it's all so materialistic.
But for some, the true meaning becomes more apparent then than ever. The people who:
- Remember themselves in the hustle and bustle, and still stop to drop a couple of things in at the food bank,
- Those who volunteer at with the local ambulance service on Christmas eve,
- Those people who are all about giving up until the very last possible moment.
These people highlight the true meaning of Christmas for others who maybe don't know or have forgotten.
When there are people who don't have much to look forward to at this time of year, there are others willing to go out of their way to help put a smile on those former peoples' faces. Where a single mother can't bare to hear her child cry one more time, thinks she'll go insane if he doesn't sleep through the night, there is another person on the end of the phone, waiting for her call so they can just let her know that there is a bigger picture and that things will get better. For those feeling like they're alone at Christmas, those who are all by themselves or those surrounded by people who call them family but have no idea of the desolate place they're in in their hearts, there is someone out there, sending up a prayer, a silent thought or a shout to a higher power they may not even believe in, just wanting the mentioned to feel their hearts.
They make it worthwhile.
Personally, my favorite day of the season is Christmas eve. When everybody sits in their homes and thinks. Maybe they run out to grab another orange for the mulled wine, or perhaps they don't even care that their advent candle hasn't been lit since the 16th. I like to go to a coffee shop with a close friend and reflect on the year, help my grandma finish her decorating, then retire to my house where I watch the snowman and listen to a hundred versions of 'I'll Be Home For Christmas'. Sometimes later in the evening I sit on my windowsill and sing carols softly as I watch the Children's Collection Sleigh pull around a dark and deserted Beeston. I can just feel something building- something so powerful that I wouldn't even try to confront, so I just quietly sit and embrace the Christmas spirit. I'm filled with joy and glee and emotions which ordinarily would have no rightful place in my heart at that time of night, but are allowed that one night because something greater is going on.
I'd like to bring my children up to believe that there is a Santa Claus- as I was- but not one who brings them presents. No, my children will know that their mummy and daddy can afford to buy their presents (God willing) and shower them in adoration in this season. I would like my children to believe in a Santa Claus who helps those in need. The guy wearing a red coat by the shops, ringing a bell and holding a bucket with various charity names plastered on the side- that's Santa. The man who gives up his family time on Christmas day to go around the children's ward at QMC and hand out presents donated to the hospital, to the children who can't be at home with their families for Christmas- that's Santa. I would have my children believe in an alternative Santa, if you like. A Santa, not about 'me me me', but about 'giving giving giving'. I'd maybe not bring them up so closely to the belief that someone would give 'greatly privileged' children gifts, but those who wouldn't get many or any otherwise. I'd bring them up with the story of a baby who could have had it all, but didn't. A baby whose Father had such passion that He gave Him the worst so that the less fortunate may have the best. If it's possible I'd bring my children up knowing an upside-down kingdom.

They would know the reason for the season.


Love.

Happy Holiday, Loser.

Bit of contextual information here:

In my GCSE English mock exam last year, we were asked to “Write an article to a website of your choice describing a travel/journey which was memorable and why it was memorable.” and so I wrote this. It's fiction- I've never been  on a plane in my life and I have two brothers as well as my sister, (who I simply call 'Sister'), I've never been to America, and I've never even met an air hostess. I honestly still wonder how/why I thought of this, and why I actually wrote it down, but I got 100%  for it so I won't complain.

Hello wonderful world of Blogspot!

 This week I thought I’d share with you a story about a holiday (if it can be called that)  which my family and I went on.

So one morning we awoke to find our dad awake and packing for a holiday; completely spur of the moment, snap decision that we would “go somewhere warm”. Our dad had woken up at 5:00am (in the middle of British Autumn).

 So off we went to sunny Texas, USA!

At the Airport, my parents looking like out-of-season Eskimos (for fear of the cold), Sister being the only normal-looking one and myself wearing flight socks, joggers and a jumper (much to my protest) waiting for our flight number to be called and watching a toddler discover the world of free mints- SUGAR RUSH.

Anyway, on the flight, a good 50,000 feet in the air I decided I would go for an exploration of the plane. Upon standing up I hit my head on the ‘ceiling’ (luggage rack) and immediately began to feel ever so slightly nausea’s. This did not matter, and so my travels would take me to the toilets I decided.

As I got further and further away from my family, the world got darker and darker and became slower and slower. This did not phase me however, as I continued to my destination. Then I became aware of my sudden extreme fever and the world began to spin. Still I think I continued to the toilets, as the next thing I remember is waking up face down in the toilet cubical, my legs hanging over my body in an un-earthly knot and both of my arms sticking out in front of me and under the next cubical.

Then, for no apparent reason, my body was completely over-taken by an over-whelming craving for ravioli and plastic cheese, so much so that I ran through the toilet door (apparently my mind no longer believed in using locks on doors or door handles, and I just ran through the door, knocking it clean off it’s frame.) and running- stumbling such as a zombie would- down the aisle, ricocheting off one passenger to the next, and probably upsetting a good 10 pints of airline tomato soup (well, who would miss it, really?) and finally landing face down in a crumpled heap at the air-hostess’s feet, myself grunting and moaning in pain and for hunger of ravioli and plastic cheese, and the air-hostess (possibly in slightly shock) screaming in terror at my zombie-like appearance.

I remember only sounds for the next part of the story which are mainly composed of my family, the inter-comm saying something about slight turbulence and my head hitting many heavy objects on my way to being dragged, semi-conscious, back to a seat.

I then recall waking up to find Sister quite contentedly sitting on top of me in my hospital bed plaiting my I.V. lines and hair together.

So thanks dad,  for the exciting idea of a surprise holiday, but a fever of 105* on a plane, passing out and spending half an hour of turbulence unconscious doesn’t quite compare to a road trip to Target, the Hard Rock Café or Sea World Florida.

But I will forever have a nice holiday snap of myself, half-dead with drip lines knotted into my hair underneath Sister eating my grapes and drinking my juice.

Happy Holiday LOSER. 

Write, read and speak.

One of the marvels of writing, I find, is what unfolds when one has finished writing and begins reading. I have recently gone to write a letter, a blog post or a postcard and been unsure of what to write. Yesterday I realized that the problem was not what to write, but thinking about what to write.
I was once told "don't think, just write" and over the past few years I have come to realize that's true. The easiest way to create an intricate balance of words and emotions is simply by letting go and allowing your heart to take full control of what is written. Naturally things will have to be altered or edited, but- for the duration of writing the passage- the simplistic (and, admittedly, cliched)  idea of allowing your heart to do the writing is probably your best shot.

Writing amazes me. Writers amaze me. The way that just one passage of text, looking so plain when viewed as a one, can be so beautiful, so heart wrenching or just completely hilarious; the way that just one person's writing can change a nation, change the hearts of millions of people perhaps without even a common interest and unite them in one piece which they could all read again and again, for the journey of the words.
Another thing which intrigues me is language- how beautiful it can be when it's just stripped back. Just words strung together cleverly, the way they're delivered or the times at which they're said can move an auditorium to tears. I don't why. I just know that it's amazing.

I love meeting and speaking to writers because they're not dramatic, but more naturalistic. They know their words and they know how to use them. They don't over annunciate, but nor do they run words together. There's something in the way they speak which sends clarification and confidence to the listeners. Authors speak, just as they write, marvelously.

I don't know why I love language so much, it just really interests me; exploring where to put words, discovering new words and just learning about language.

I also love writing. I don't pride myself on all of my writings, but sometimes I feel something when I'm writing and realize that it's actually something I could probably use to help others- again, I don't know how.
I don't know a lot of things, but what I do know is this: language and writing are beautiful arts, and if everyone was more careful with words and treated language more delicately, there would be a world ready to transform future generations through both.

Lest We Forget

This past Sunday was Remembrance Sunday. It is one of the few days we have in the UK where things slow down and people begin to appreciate the delicate, fragile lives that were taken so cruelly and prematurely- snatched from the world before their stories were quite finished- because of war.
War is a horrific thing. It tears through countries, destroying the lives of those it touches. It can rip through a household- traumatize children, leaving them crying out for parents that will never come home, take a son from a mother, leaving her soul mutilated with emotional pain; having to bury her baby.
I stood at the cenotaph in my hometown, watched the parade and listened to the memorials for those lives lost in the war all those years ago, and those who are still losing their lives to protect us now. As I watched a 7-year-old lay a reef for her big brother, killed in action just four weeks ago, I felt sorrow, I felt anguish and I felt anger.
I felt a lot of anger, for many reasons. I felt anger for the speaker, having to give the incident the label 'unfortunate'. I know that that's the term for it in the army, but it angered me that a precious, loving life was lost and described as simply: 'unfortunate'. I felt anger that a little girl had to say goodbye to her brother for the last time before she even reached the ever-important 'double digits' age. I felt so much anger that nearly 100 years on from the second worst confrontation in the history of war, almost 90 years on since the worst confrontation in the same history, we are still living in a world where the arrogance and stupidity of mankind still kills so many beautiful people each day.

I was also, however, amazed at the respect on the occasion- of humans and animals alike. People of all backgrounds, coming together to spend a moment remembering treacherous war crimes we must never forget. Bickering siblings, pausing to question the change of mood: the silent parade of comrades; the candles lit in cathedrals; the families, gathered and weeping by the stone statue in the town square. Criminals, silencing themselves for a few minutes to remember those who gave lives for their own protection, when they themselves perhaps acted so stupidly in a moment of disregard for others of their own kind. I stood and watched a dog sit patiently, silently, watching it's owner as a tear made it's way over the contours of her wizened face. The dog laid itself aside and sat loyally by her. He looked almost expectant. He was determined to comfort her, had she needed him to.

The occasion put a mixture of emotions on my heart, all of which rooted themselves into my mind and in my heart, a burning passion which decided for me that I should write about it.

So I did.

Lest we forget those Heroes who gave their today for our tomorrow.