Maybe I just need a smaller bowl…….”

We weren’t going to decorate this year.

Most of our things are still in boxes and I have no clue which one holds the ornaments. I figured we would be further along in the “moving in” process by this time, I pictured us at Christmas, stockings hung by the chimney with care, sitting around a fully decorated Victorian tree, in our fully decorated Victorian house, sipping hot toddies and toasting our new perfect, organized life.

Life, however, does not always conform to our daydreams and best laid plans. As such, we are woefully behind my self imposed schedule and decorating is not a luxury we have time (nor am I sure I have the emotional energy) for.

Then…..the church across the street hung wreaths from every window. The old Victorians along our walking route bloomed garland and holly seemingly overnight. Candle light glowed from even the most ramshackled house, and I wanted in. I wanted to be a part of it all. I wanted to be tucked in safe and warm behind a layer of evergreen and mistletoe opening advent calendars and counting down the twelve days.

Which is how I found myself, two weeks before Christmas, having an existential crisis in the middle of the picked over “holiday aisle” of the local (don’t judge) Walmart. I had an arm full of wreaths (which my husband dutifully hung even though it meant he had to climb out on to the roof through the only functioning window on the second floor,) decorative snowflakes for the lower window shutters, a big red bow for the light post in the front yard, poinsettias for the porch.

The “narwhal” all decked out.

It was the ornaments that left me questioning.

The outside of the house would show the appropriate holiday spirit, but we needed something festive for inside. I had the idea of filling the giant, odd shaped, glass bowl I bought on a whim with colorful ornaments and calling it done. I had a sleeve of funky colored ornaments in my hand, two in my basket and was reaching for a forth when I thought to myself:

“Enough.”

When I thought to myself:

“Maybe I don’t need more ornaments. Maybe I just need a smaller bowl…..”

It was anxiety inducing and a huge relief all at the same time as I put three of the ornament sleeves back on the shelf and headed for the check out.

I queued in line behind a woman whose cart was overflowing with wrapping paper, bows and ornaments (more than four sleeves) and a man with more of the same. I felt awkwardly lacking and aware as I emptied my basket onto the conveyor belt and felt the need to justify my paltry (by comparison) haul to the cashier. “It is just my husband and I this year, ” she checked her watch and nodded. “We are new to the area” I rambled on. She nodded again and continued to scan my items.

“My mother died at the holidays…….” I stop before blurting this part out. I feel it should be obvious to anyone who sees me. I still feel shell shocked and numb and unable to cope but no one but a select few can pick out the tell tale signs.

I stop before I go on and on and on and on (as I am prone to do when nervous) about the ornaments I wanted but put back.

I stop before I unload onto this stranger, who is obviously overdo for a break of some kind, that the giant empty bowl can never be filled no matter how many sleeves of ornaments I buy and pour into its never satisfied maw.

I stop before I disclose my theory, that behind every festive facade, every decorated porch, every perfectly trimmed tree, is a person in search of a smaller bowl; in search of a way to be full, in search of “enough.”

At home I pour my funky ornaments into the smaller bowl (I even have ornaments left over that I divide between bowls that are smaller still,) assign a silver reindeer to stand watch and call it done.

Call it enough.

It is a gift, this “enough.” It is an exhale, a release. It is permission to just “be.”

“Be” in the moment.

“Be” at this place on the journey even if it is not as far as I had hoped to be.

To “Be” content with what I have while acknowledging what I am missing. To recognize that “enough” is not a stagnant thing. To recognize that “enough” is not a failure; not a short coming. Enough is a place of appreciation and reflection.

There will be no hot toddies this year (maybe next year?) and that is OK.

I am still standing. I am still growing. I am still learning. And that, for now, is enough.

Christmas morning we head to the beach.

A new tradition.

We walk the shoreline, collect stones worn smooth by the waves, track pelicans on the overcast horizon, nod to strangers doing the same.

There are no children among us. They are home unwrapping presents, parents breathing out, hoping it is all enough.

For now, it is just us. People of a “certain age.” People whose children have grown, people with aging parents, people lost in deep thought, pondering the vastness and meaning of it all, orphans called home to the sea.

Someone has made a makeshift Christmas tree out of driftwood. Festooned it with garland, offered it shells. We chuckle as we walk by it, lay smooth stones on the alter, while shore birds shake sand from the reeds and chatter nearby oblivious to the absurdity of it all.

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