Weeknotes: November 25-29, 2024
It’s the start of the holidays. I’ll likely take a break from Weeknotes sometime in the next month, but for now, here’s a little Thanksgiving four-parter and some notes on the joy of running.
Monday, November 25
PART 1: I hang my evergreen wreath on the high eave of the porch. No ladder needed; I balance its fulcrum on the tip of my walking stick which I keep in a blue bucket next to the coat rack, and gently lift it up to the waiting nail placed there three years ago.
Tuesday, November 26
PART 2: It's from a supermarket, but I choose my little Fraser fir with care. I've procured Christmas trees from all manner of businesses, from rustic cut-your-own tree farms to pop-up corner lots run by local charities. I think of pre-cut trees like shelter animals; they all need homes, even if it's just for a month. This year's tabletop fir has a jaunty top branch that bends out like a horn. I set it to the side, untie its plastic ribbon, and go inside to scan the barcode. It's small enough to fit sideways in my backseat and when vertical will fill the little 12" x 20" space I've allotted atop my living room bookcase.
As the sun sets I wind a string of colored Christmas lights through the upper spindles of the porch. All around me, neighbors are raking up the last of the autumn leaves for pickup tomorrow. I'm the first one on my block to light up. It's two days before Thanksgiving.
Wednesday, November 27
PART 3: I've just come home from an evening of shopping. A couple gifts from a bookstore downtown, gift wrap from the hardware store, some fancy Belgian ale and little bottles of Underberg for Thanksgiving tomorrow. I mix a Manhattan, put on Jo Stafford's The Joyful Season, then spend a pleasant hour trimming my little fir tree. Many years ago, my mom gathered up a lifetime of Christmas ornaments, ones she'd bought for me every year since birth, and organized them in a series of boxes for me with handwritten notes. My little trees are never big enough to hold them all so I try to rotate them each year while adding new ones from my adult life. The house has now ascended to peak coziness.
Thursday, November 28
PART 4: I drink Old Fashioneds with my dad and brother, lounging around the hearth while our collective dogs romp around us. Since we moved to Ypsilanti, Islay has been an only pet, so I appreciate whenever the family pack comes together. Cousin Eric calls from Honolulu and I shout a greeting to him on speakerphone over the din of dogplay.
I have a small family; the pets almost outnumber the humans. I’m glad there’s a holiday specifically meant for sharing a meal together.
When I woke up this morning, I drafted a list of other things I'm thankful for. I did this after coffee, but before looking at my phone and getting swept up into the outside world. It's a delicate time and sometimes you have to manufacture the quiet moments. I also ran five miles, my own solo Turkey Trot.
Friday, November 29
Today's run feels like a song. Or a poem or work of art. Some days a run is just maintenance, but other days it's complex and emotional. It's windy outside and snowing, perfect conditions. I listen to Blood Incantation's Absolute Elsewhere on my headphones and after about a mile and a half I find the excitement in my body. “Water flowing uphill” is how I always think of it. Pure efficiency, every step slotting into the perfect route, the opposite of effort. The animal joy of existing. It doesn't happen that often and almost never when it's hot out. I don’t know why I love winter running so much, but it’s my favorite time of year to be out on the roads logging mileage. Something else to be thankful for.