Turning Back the Clock

The small brown dog scurries for the warmth of her heating pad on this cold, rainy November day. She curls up in a tight, little ball, shivering from the cold rain and I dry her off while she whimpers and watches me with desperate eyes. She's a sunshine dog and hates this time of year when the air turns cold and the skies gray, the flowers dead and the trees barren to the bone. The holiday season is here and she wants to turn back the clock to July.

Christmas lights are in windows and the downtown streets are littered with wreaths on every lamp post and decorations in every doorway. The rescue mission is busy feeding and sheltering the homeless and the stores open at 4am to entice shoppers - they push and shove their way through, mindless of courtesy and rigidly focused on the concept of first come, first serve. It's a weary time, a materialistic, greedy, me-first time and the holiday spirit is lost in the crowds. The church bells ring out Christmas carols but no one listens and they become just so much noise. I'm often accused of being a grinch this time of year and to an extent it's true - holidays get in the way of my routines and disrupt my carefully constructed schedules. Except for the music, I find that I would more and more like to bypass them entirely and go straight from October to January. The prospect of a new year and a fresh start always appeals to the optimist in me while the holidays seem to bring out my worst side - impatience,
cynicism, bad temper, all the leftover emotions from a burdensome childhood. They're over and done with and it's past time to move on yet they still randomly ambush me, often when I least expect it and the joy of the season remains just out of reach.

So like the small brown dog, I scurry for my own heating pad and wait out the chill.

I'm an old backslider,
In a pit of sin,
I try to climb out,
and fall back in.

Greg Brown