Per Sam's request.

I am grateful for:

Found not-stale hot chocolate and seasoned wood piles, new-vinyl record smell and cracking a fresh bottle of perfume, a surprise brandy given without expectation of company. Woolen legwarmers and cheesy Christmas movies, cheeseburgers and everyone jumping back on the Pokemon Go bandwagon with me while I attempt to finish the game (they say it isn't finishable but I choose not to believe that). being on the last fifteen pages of Billy Summers and really enjoying it even as I waited for the horror that never came. Men in 2021 getting cancelled for shit they thought they'd gotten away with (Caleb notwithstanding. Did he get away with it? Maybe, maybe not. Depends on who you ask or what day it is.), and women being strong. The health of my children and my boys. Nachos. Bad fountain pop from fast-food drive-throughs and well-fitting masks. Finding a hair elastic when I need one most, because my hair is that fun stage, just past my chin where it's not heavy enough to stay tucked behind my ears but I can make a Rescuers Pennyesque ponytail that sticks straight out. The hearing I have left. A whole host of good series just begun. The new tires in my possession tomorrow replacing what I didn't know was old and unsafe. Grateful for means and generosity always. Grateful for the daylight that filters through the giant windows facing the ocean and for the perpetual dimness in the front forest, toadstools included. For the imagination to travel when under duress and the weightlessness to be easy to restore. For the support and the love, affection and outright sick enjoyment of feeling wanted all the time. For all of it. Every last thing from the unbent forks we still use daily for pie to the extra-long generic phone cord that sometimes works and sometimes doesn't so I can sit up and surf my phone while both boys sleep with me as the meat to their bread sandwich. For cheques I can write with money gifted by a friend who really did say he wouldn't add to the heat and he stood by that oath and for new k-pop videos that make the kids dance even as they talk cars and careers in the front hall when Ruth stopped by on her way somewhere this morning. 

I don't take a thing for granted. Not a one. You know this.

We are struggling along today. Got a little bad but not truly unexpected bad news. Was a long one. Am I relieved? Not really but kind of. Is life fair? Never, ever, ever. Do we soldier on?

Of course.

AM BEING FESTIVE COME BACK LATER.

I was expressly forbidden to go outside this morning unless I wore a helmet. 

Hilarious, guys. 

The boys were doing some tree-limbing/trimming/chopping. Usually my job is to cut up the smaller branches and then stack them in a neat pile and we use them (don't laugh) to make sculptures for hanging lanterns, boardwalks on the beach, even Blair-witch style warning sigils for the woods on the point. A huge pile goes in the dry port for future woodstove/fireplace use and Lochlan burns the rest in the bonfire. I used to be allowed to wield the little electric chainsaw but not this winter. Nope. I was relegated to the racheting garden shears, using my left hand.. At least they're sharpened so it was easy work but also dumb. While I was out there I cut back the barnsley and the phlox that I forgot to do in October and completely ignored the wall of lemon balm that's encroaching on everyone and everything.

It's all done and I came inside while they cleaned the gutters (again. Trees. Gah.) and washed up and pulled a warm sweater on over my clothes and made a hot chocolate. I plugged in all of the Christmas trees and turned on all the lights and fired up Ali & Theo on the stereo. 

Duncan comes in, face twisted in amusement. Whatcha doing, Bridge? 

Getting ready for a long winter, same as you all, I said. I really hate that it gets dark at like lunchtime now so my solution is to turn on every light in the house.

Dear Santa.

(I saw him yesterday. I wasn't ready even though Ben tried to drag me over. I couldn't.)

When I woke up the Christmas spirit was already here some how. The music seemed to fit better without being harsh and intrusive. The lights glowed with a brighter hue, the snow is quickly receding and I've come to peace on a lot of issues as of late. My anxiety though, remains through the roof and I don't know if I could fix it. I've dallied with becoming a quiet alcoholic. A functional drug user. I've tried shutting down and opening up. I've distracted and focused too. I've ranged far and wide looking for solutions. Even the woo-woo ones.  I buy crystals. I've had Reiki, acupuncture, cupping and IVs of vitamins. I've danced in the salt at Burning Man and had a candlelit dinner for two at the Eiffel tower. I've cried in the ocean and screamed into the void. I've howled at the moon and I've spent hours and thousands on talk therapy. I've had my brain zapped. I tried Lithium once. 

I went away. Three times. 

I think maybe anxiety is my spirit animal now since Matthew Good got cancelled a while ago. I still think he's a genius songwriter, just maybe not the greatest person. 

Who among us is though? 

I'm probably the worst of all. I cast no fucking stones ever. I'll forgive fully-realized monsters because that's what we're supposed to do and all we can acknowledge is our own faults at the end of the day and try and change. 

This one thing though, I can't change. 

Maybe Santa can bring me some courage that sticks. That's what I would like this year.

Fourteen beams of light.

I'm having a productive day. Changed my own oil and filters. Did an inspection on my (little, old, not the new one) Jeep and ordered new tires for it since the ones on it are from uhhhhfar too long ago. Made a date to pick them up and have the old ones swapped off the rims. Regretted nothing. 

Bought a dress. 

Read that it's the thirty-second anniversary of the Montreal Massacre. That's a very long time. I still mark it though, every year. 

Bought groceries. It was snowing. We were up at five, geeking out. We headed out before seven and figured we would just get things done today. 

We wolfed down coffee and croissants. And fried potatoes too. 

We did not shovel anything except the dog ramp and Duncan's steps. And now we're making supper. French Dips and fries. Yum.

Jesus Ice Patch.

I may have curled the dog out the patio door, down his little ramp and into the soft grass. I'm not going to score any points on my end and the dog was rightly offended but we lived to tell the tale and he is back inside now, under the big beautifully- and constantly-lit Christmas tree in the great room. He lives for having a tree in the house but he's never mistaken it for one he can use. 

The house is still quiet this morning. Lochlan's working on his guitar lessons (he's playing Fly At Night. He plays, I sing and change all of the lyrics until he laughs. He says I am detrimental. He means to his practice. I think in general.)

I am mainlining the Butterscotch coffee he found for me. I drink it black but I like the smell and the bittersweet aftertaste. 

This song is the radio twin to Fleetwood Mac's Say You Love Me and I might be right as they're only three years apart but both were out and established by the time I moved to Campbell and that's where this all started.

Fleeced.

It snowed this morning. Not enough to leave anything on the pavement but the gardens were covered for a few hours and there's touches of it here and there. 

Wow. And it's only like November. So early this year. 

Lochlan stares at me. It's December fourth. 

No it isn't. But the trees are up. The lights are on, the presents are sent, wrapped and planned otherwise and the turkeys are in the freezers. I've been ready for weeks now. Also these drugs make it so the days run together and I have to concentrate way too hard on the numbers and days of the week specifically and that's WAY too much work so I don't bother. 

Lochlan is wearing his warmest hoodie. It's got soot marks on the cuffs and a little on the hood. That won't come out. He has his hair tied back with one of my velvet elastics. We've made a pact not to cut our hair until 2025. Just for fun. His hair grows lightening-fast. Mine is slow but I currently have the tiniest baby ponytail that ever was and if I move it will probably all fall out. But I also chopped mine last year. He only comes along every five or six years and buzzes his hair short and then just starts all over again. 

I also have one one of his ancient warm hoodies on. That's tradition. Mine doesn't have soot marks but it does have tearing along the seams of the hood and the arms from where he's pulled me in/back/over/around something and tested his faith on fabric instead of anything less tangible.

When you don't speak the language but you nod along and smile.

In endless surprises once again Caleb asked for and was granted permission to take me somewhere as long as he didn't let go of my hand. Fridays are his day that we go down to the beach and after our walk today (in which he did not let go, even as I tried to reach down to collect pretty bubbles of tiny beach glass) he kissed the back of my hand, shot a cuff that didn't exist (long sleeve thermal tees and Patagonia jackets make that move difficult and pointless) and said in ten minutes we will have some visitors. 

My heart turns to ice, thread, staples and all. It's the Russians. Coming back when they realized I wasn't joking when I said not to acknowledge Caleb any further. He thought I was being sweet, in deference to their power but I was being honest. Stop. Go away already.

No, I have a colleague from the old days who retired out here as well and it turns out his daughter and her husband sell crystals and they're going to come by so we can do a little personal shopping. 

Really. How?

They have a well stocked van and they do trade shows and online sales and so they're bringing some things to show you that I thought you might like and if you like them they will sell them on the spot. I get a little discount since I'm a friend of the family but they have some really nice pieces. 

You're looking at my wishlists again, aren't you? 

Perhaps, but I also see some pretty pieces on the windowsills and I know this could be a fun way to add to your collections. 

By the time we left our treasures by the door to be washed, cleaned up and put on masks for our company the van was slowly coming down the driveway. Lochlan came out to see what was up and then went away just as quickly as it wasn't anything as alarming as last week. 

And. OH MY GOD. 

SO MANY PRETTY THINGS. 

I know damn well if I had just asked Caleb if they could leave their whole inventory and just bill him he would have said yes without hesitation, but in the end I tried to have restraint and chose only the pieces that called to me, which were a beautiful tower of angelite, a flourite owl, a yooperlite tiny skull that looks like he's on fire when you shine a black light on him, ocean jasper worry stones (2 different oval-shapes because I couldn't choose), a blue goldstone point and a citrine palm stone which is bigger than my palm but Caleb wouldn't leave it alone so I think I might give it to him. I got a bracelet of gorgeous, glossy, highly-polished flame jasper beads for Lochlan and an opalite rabbit carving too. I think the rabbit and the owl will be for Ruth and Henry and the rest I will keep, as no one else is into crystals in the main house and I like to keep it simple, overall. 

They threw in a selenite bowl and a carved agate one too and a wonderful selection of smaller tumbled assorted pieces (I see rutilated quartz, picture jasper, chalcedony and a piece of rose quartz that was positively singing) plus two big points of carnelian and a half-dozen obsidian points for near our egress doors. Oh, Schuyler, eat your heart out (don't worry I will give them some too.) and then as a final gift, they gave me a beautiful carved angel wing of labradorite so flashy I don't remember seeing them leave, I couldn't stop looking at it. 

Merry Christmas, Caleb says. He's very proud of himself. The box weighs a hundred pounds. I'm sure if I didn't make him broke before, I have now. 

Okay, well, that was really fun, I admit. Damn.

I surfaced to shove you under.

It's a rowboat through the season, through the living room full of presents and decorations, past the Christmas trees and into the wet leaves and sodden mashed-down grass of the lawn. If you row hard enough you can fly off the cliff, catch some wind on a cloud and land in the higher tide, the softer one, in my opinion. The low tide is full of surprises, sharp rocks and errant logs jamming themselves against the shores, keeping your tiny boat from beaching yes, but also keeping you from venturing back to dry land after your navigation is complete. 

(And that lifejacket isn't going to save you. It hasn't yet and it's not going to. The only reason you can breathe at all is because he has you by the collar and he's keeping you aloft-)

From now on anyone who wants me for anything has to clear it with Lochlan first. Except for Ruth and Henry. Even Ben. That raised some waves, right there, and the storm took forever to clear. That's why I'm posting so late today. 

(Also because he took my Wifi but I can whore for a hotspot better than ANYONE ALIVE.)

I live to enrage you (part II).

When I returned (safely, to everyone's disappointment), Caleb was on the patio steps. He grabs me by the upper arm, steering me inside. I think he's pissed that I was going to Batman's (even if I didn't stay) and instead he says we have a Christmas visitor and I am to play dumb and stay out of reach. It's a hiss and a serious warning and he isn't fucking around and I am steered all the way down the hall through the house to the front hall. 

In the front hall are three men I recognize, going back years and two I don't recognize at all. Bodyguards. I ask them to wait outside. I won't have guns in my home. They head outside, as apparently it is a quick visit just to leave some gifts, as it's been a long year once again and they are always thinking of our/my wellbeing. There are two cases in the front hall and an envelope on top of one. I am instructed to enjoy the gifts with my friends before the old man asks if I need anything. 

Actually I do. Caleb has stopped trying to talk over me finally and watches. He isn't worried but he's plenty worried, and his body language has him standing a quarter-width in front of me, just in case. 

Anything for you. Name it. 

If Caleb calls you, please don't pick up. 

And he laughs, a loud ringing belly laugh and comes forward to kiss both my cheeks. Caleb doesn't even budge and it's a bit of a shuffle. And with that he is waving goodbye over his shoulder, collecting his sons and rendezvousing with his bodyguards who stood on the porch waiting. 

One case is vodka. The other is vintage art tools and new supplies from Saint Petersburg, things I've been coveting for some time but only knew one way to get and I wasn't going to choose that way. Apparently it chose me. I did send them off with a family Christmas card, because we keep a ready stack just in case, as there are always producers or managers swinging by to drop off a gift or a card and we learned quickly.

Send it all back to the Motherland, Lochlan says when he sees the cases. 

If you're smart that's the last thing you want to do, Caleb reminds him. As long as we only see them once a year and they seem content to spoil Bridget, then we can manage. 

Do you even hear yourself? You've made her the focus. When has that EVER served to be a good idea?

Lochlan, take a breath, please. It's over. Everything is fine. 

Maybe for you. I want no part of this. And she won't be at the next meeting. 

There are no more meetings. 

Gift exchanges. WHATEVER, DIABHAL. NO MORE.