A Walker in the Suburbs

What day is it, anyway?

Feels like a Wednesday,  third day after the “Sunday” that was Christmas.

Or a Saturday, with the same open spaces and relaxed demeanor of that end-of-week day.

It’s certainly not Monday or Tuesday. No back-to-workness about his day. None at all.

Ah yes, it’s Friday. With Saturday and Sunday still to look forward to.

There’s nothing automatic about this realization. Which means we’re living through a week without days.

It couldn’t have come at a better time.

The luminaries were our neighbor’s idea, and I’m afraid we weren’t very happy about them at first. Saving plastic milk jugs, sawing their tops off, adding a layer of kitty litter and a candle — just more items on an endless to-do list. 

But we saved a few containers, our neighbor filled in with paper bags, and on Christmas Eve our suburban street was transformed.

It wasn’t just the way the lighted path shone in the dark. Or how the candles stayed lit through the drizzle and fog. It was how neighbors poured out of their houses, strolled along with hot toddies, chatted as if in a long June twilight. Someone played carols through outside speakers. Kids ran  around.

It was unexpected. It was magical.

Distance, illness and weather kept us from gathering this holiday as we usually do. But eventually, the east coast contingent of my family came together for presents, food, conversation and controlled chaos. We solved a few world problems — though gun violence and climate change continue to elude us — and had some laughs, too.

Now we’re back home watching the snow fall. No walking in the suburbs today.

It’s time to stay inside, read and make soup.

Last night we put up the tree. We’ve inherited two blue chairs since last year, so we had to move those to make room. The plug we usually use for lights hasn’t worked in months, so we jerry-rigged extension cords for illumination.

And then there’s the tree itself, which looks like someone took a big bite out of the top. There isn’t enough corner to hide its deficiencies.

In other words, it wasn’t our typical tree. And it wasn’t our typical tree-decorating fest. We weren’t all present, and afterwards we sat outside around the fire pit and looked at the stars.

But there was plenty of talking and laughing. Families change; traditions can, too.

This year’s tree doesn’t look like this!

As our part of earth tilts farther from the sun, as days shorten and gray, as night swallows our lives  — there’s a good chance we won’t notice.

We’re too distracted standing in line at the post office, searching for ornaments in the dank storage area of the basement, finding if not the perfect tree then at least one with flaws that can be successfully hidden by strategic placement in the corner.

Did the ancients have this idea when they celebrated solstice or whatever holiday we purloined for Christmas? Were these feasts only to appease the gods or shout hooray? Or were our ancestors saying to themselves, yeah, looks like the world’s gonna end any day now, but I have this goat to slaughter and these wild herbs, they might freshen it up a bit, and it seems a shame to let it go to waste…

Because distraction, I think, is one of the surest bets of all. Distraction itself is worth celebrating.