We are meant to do nothing on Christmas. But there are things I want to remember now. And because I want to remember them so much, remembering cannot be doing. Doing is painful and arduous. It’s Christmas! We don’t do things today. I won’t do anything after this.
The things I want to remember! I want to remember the Joy of learning new things, growing and becoming. I also want to remember the doubt that has led to the questions I find answers to. Embracing Amor Fati requires we see things. Recognize them. Remember them so that we may forget. We cannot forget that which we do not know.
Christmas finds me here in the comfort of doing nothing but remembering. I am reminded, though, that this too is doing. That nothing is to be done, performed, executed. Living life is a never-ending doing. When we gather for Christmas to do nothing together, we are choosing to wait for Godot that ever elusive settlement. The sense that life is perfect and still. Does that ever come?
Eh, I’ll go ahead and remember anyways.
I had three perfectly pleasant White Russians, gentle conversation, a quiet walk home. I spoke to mother and Christmas is alive sans me and the covid-infected brother. I’m headed to watch Community. I’m calling a friend and laughing about his anti-vaxxer uncle. My Juul pods have been emptying much faster than what Google said the average was. I guess I am above average at some things huh.
Christmas isn’t the same, but different has been acceptable so far. I’ve never received a Christmas gift that was just spectacular, and I’m not a Jesus Stan either so no loyalty there–acceptable is really no change from years past. I think one time when I was super young I got phone privileges? It’s been downhill ever since. The whole covid thing is current old news. When will I get to forget about that? Seems like never.
USA Today’s logic puzzles fill my wind-down today. I acknowledge again, there is a joy to doing nothing.
Yet I wonder, am I doing nothing enough? Am I doing Christmas right? How do I decide? Must I ask? I cannot measure nothing. I could ask, but oh Garcin, the exhaustions of subjectivity are plenty.
What is this nothing we are meant to do on Christmas? Maybe we aren’t meant to think either. Really meant to do nothing. Meant to listen to Estragon: “Don’t let’s do anything. It’s safer.” I think I’ll set out things for my run tomorrow morning and go to bed. How great sleep tastes is proof of its something-ness, but there is only so much nothing one can do. Tomorrow I will do a little, but not so much. Tapering is key. I cannot tell when I will be back to doing things again. Will the clock strike? How will I know?
I hope you found joy today. Or did nothing too, because then you found a joy I haven’t yet. This Christmas, just maybe, you have found joy.