Hi all,
How did it become almost December already? Who signed off on that? I had a pretty busy November, and for that reason it still feels like maybe November 12, but my calendar disagrees with me.
For me, December is the month of Christmas, which means Christmas gifts. I have a bit of a love-hate relationship with Christmas gifts. Every once in a while you gift a good one, and the other person’s eyes light up… and then there are the other years. The flops.
My dad was especially hard to buy for. I don’t think I ever got him something he actually liked, for Christmas or his birthday or any other gift opportunity. I only got him one he truly hated (a really ugly tie one year when I had given up on December 23) and the rest were just blah. I kept trying for something that would delight him: a specialist book about tea, a collection of recipes from his favourite magazine (Bon Appetit), a hand-carved wooden letter opener that looked like a gazelle. None of them delighted him. The best I managed was a box of chocolate-covered ginger. He ate some of that.
My problem with gift-giving is that I get anxious, and when I get anxious I get less than rational. When I’m anxious, the gift becomes a symbol of the relationship, and if the gift is a flop, that means bad things for the relationship.
I’ve been known to buy two gifts for people because I buy the first, thinking “ooh, this is perfect” and then the next day realize “ooh, this is the worst idea ever”. For example, there’s the little flashy blue and green purse I bought many years ago for my sister. My sister who has much better taste than I ever will, and who doesn’t buy purses from the little stalls in the middle aisles of malls, and who didn’t wear flashy, shiny, cheap stuff. That tiny purse lived on the top shelf of my closet for years. I eventually donated it to Value Village, and I hope someone was overjoyed with it for their four-year-old, because I’m not sure an adult would be impressed. I forget what I got her instead, but I’m sure it wasn’t great (though better than an ugly purse).
Then there are the gifts you buy someone else because you want them yourself. You know those gifts? I was pretty poor for a while in my 20s, and I had a list of books I wanted to buy for myself when I had some money. These were books I’d loved as a child from the library, or books I’d lent to someone at some point and not seen back, or books that ended up with the ex when we split (why did he get all the good books?). So one year I had a little more money and could afford to buy this pile of great books. Did I buy them for myself? No, of course not. That would have made sense. I bought the whole pile for my brother, and I think he even liked some of them. But in the following years I had to buy each book again piecemeal for my own shelves. Two years ago I finally ordered the last one. I often wonder why I didn’t just buy those books for myself?
This year I had all the gifts planned. I was going to do all handmade, make candles for everyone. I bought the beeswax sheets for wrapped candles several weeks ago online, picked up the box in Vancouver on the way back from a mini-vac. I had lots of colours, was going to make little cutouts with a craft knife to stick on the outside of each candle. I got the last five sheets of Christmas red. Paid a small fortune for wax and wicks. Spent a certain amount of time deciding who would get which colour, whether leaves or poinsettias would be more appropriate for each. For once I would win Christmas!
And then my sister said, let’s do a secret Santa this year and each get a gift for just one person.
Before the poem, here’s a couple things:
There’s still room in my upcoming in-person workshops called Poetry for People Afraid of Poetry on Dec. 2 and 9, 2023, from 1:30 to 3:30 in Victoria. They can be taken together or standalone. Click here for more info.
Also, I’m facilitating a five-week online workshop series on Tuesday evenings 6 to 8 pm starting January 9, 2024, called Writing in the Dark of the Year. Price is 125$. More information here.
FROM THE SPIRAL NOTEBOOK
I’ve been going through old notebooks lately, and have noticed I’m writing a few poems about specific moments in time, trying to explain how exactly I feel in that exact moment. Here’s one:
Sunday 9:30 a.m.
A bed in the middle of her mind sheets turned down. Light spangly, as of sunlight in and out among clouds in a fast wind. A sort of humming, as of a woman who just learned a secret that surprises. Her mind like corduroy: fingers numb when they play too long along ribs. It’s warm, but a sweater is needed for cosiness. Brain sweaters are a new skill for her. As a girl she strained for comfort. Is that the numbness? Her fingers run and run the ribs like a tongue finds over and over, the sore tooth.
NOTES
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And thanks, as always, for reading.
Yours,
Kelsey Andrews
Love this! Long ago, I gave up trying to buy my father a "worthy" Christmas or birthday gift. I started to have fun with it and as a result, he has received over the years: a Slurpee, shoe polish, a bouncy rubber egg, a bendy animated toy that is supposed to be a piece of tofu, dog poop bags (he doesn't have a dog) and countless other goofy gifts. Sometimes he even wraps them up and gives them back to me the following Christmas. It always makes me laugh. Thank you for this lovely post so I could remember this... :)
O-M-G, hilarious. Christmas gifts. When my husband and I first got together I had my 30th birthday and he came home (we lived together) and slapped a one-month membership to the rec centre into my palm. I was shocked. What's this? I asked. "Happy Birthday", he said, "You're always talking about wanting to get in shape". Haha... amazing. I tried to school him on gift-giving and he was so traumatized that it's still an issue 30 years later. I've given him plenty of duds over the years, both birthdays and Xmas, but forever he will claim he's "no good at getting gifts for me". Even though he's given me lots of great gifts. Merry Christmas! Trauma all around!