A line of Christmas gift bags, one each for every member of our family, sits atop the organ bench, while the other furniture in the room sits in closer and crowded arrangement so as to allow for the fullness of the tree. My mediation space has dwindled, but when I close my eyes the entire universe sprawls open-ended before me, and if I’m doing it right no space is too small for meditation.
On the dining room table, a jumbled mix of Christmas cards, bills, scarves, papers, gifts and boxes is messily sorted into little piles, while the chairs around the table are hung with multiple holiday-hued coats. Our home is, in short, in the midst of its annual holiday mess, and though this would typically stress me all the way out, I’m not especially bothered by it. The mess will get cleaned up, the holidays will happen, I’ll look fierce in every single one of those coats, and our well-ordered existence, or at least the appearance of one, will return in the New Year. In the meantime, this purgatorial bliss of unprettiness reminds me to embrace the magnificent messiness of life.
