I saw the word “hunger” in a dream.

Not a representation of the word but the word itself.

I had been lying by the fireplace, letting its warmth melt the month’s worth of ice that had collected on my soul. I find I require more frequent thawing-out these days. It can be hard to locate consistent light sources in the darkest time of the year. It’s all consuming and capable of causing frostbite if we’re not careful.

With more stars spinning in my head than usual, I intended to write a poem only to quickly trade it for prose. I began to pen a scenario in which I savored a Merry Little Christmas like the last drop of the richest Italian liquor. Was it the continuation of writing paradise into existence, the soul call put into words, or both? Either way, the ice was really starting to melt.

I smiled to myself. What I would have once relegated as fantasy is attainable these days.

Any writer knows that we live vicariously through the characters and worlds that we create. But sometimes, my words cause me to wonder: how much joy have I exchanged for pain for the sake of the craft? Have I done so knowingly or unknowingly? I’d like to think that I have done so unknowingly. But the truth is, as artists, we’re born knowing the latter to be true.

Still, knowing what I know, could I somehow complete the cycle by beginning to exchange pain for joy? Am I capable of making it so, or does it require a sort of luck just out of my reach?

Who among us does not wish to live a life informed by joy and is searching for something they do not quite understand? I suppose my thinking is not unique, and I’m fortunate to no longer have to ponder these questions alone.

This mood is not new, especially for this time of year. I think the impending holidays and the media surrounding them cause us to reevaluate everything in our lives—especially if we’re missing childhood magic and without any small children of our own. December has a way of causing us to take stock of our happiness levels and the capacity to make us feel more lonesome than usual.

Are we in balance? And if not, how can we even out the scales?

Many years ago, right around this time, I encountered someone who considered himself lucky and based a whole season of his art around the concept. But luck didn’t simply appear on the steps of his state-of-the-art tour bus. He created it by acting on opportunity. Sometimes I find myself thinking back and admiring his methods to stop at nothing until he satisfied his hungry heart, loneliness extinguished.

They say we can be drawn to our polar opposites. The old me did not realize that reality is just a dream we decide to create. I did not understand then that the point of life is to feed the heart until it beats no longer. There is a lesson to be learned here: we are driven to action by ignition of the spirit, so we have to keep our spirits well lubricated.

But what are we to do when our perception of the world has changed, and not for the better? How about when our heads are so full of images that came to represent our personal definitions of joy but no longer exist in the present day? 

I exist within a so-changed world, cherished images gradually fading from memory. I am overcome trying to hold into these memories, yet I recognize they were never fully mine to begin with. I guess my definition of joy became skewed somewhere. Such is the hard reality of constructive memory, when we look upon our past with rose-colored glasses, romanticizing events that weren’t all that romantic to begin with. 

I often think about a place that would transform into a child’s definition of a winter wonderland—and mine, too. The children would wonder aloud to me, wide-eyed: how could the world they knew become a miniature version of Santa’s workshop overnight? I felt more than a little magical, having the daily opportunity to play act in their fantasy. I had a collector’s edition of The Night Before Christmas and in my then-library, I would put on my best storyteller’s voice while impatient children rustled at my feet and scrambled to paw the pop-up illustrations. The warmth of strands upon strands of multicolored hanging lights served as backdrop to the scene.

Christmas hadn’t felt that magical to me in a long while. I was Mrs. Claus for a time, though the brain has a way of preserving only the good parts. 

As these images become relegated to confines of my memory, I cannot help but wonder how long they will remain intact. Can I place blame on the media and how dangerously easy it is to become caught up in the ideal portrayal of the holiday, and how easy it is to fall into the trap of feeling less-than if your reality does not match the Hallmark movies? Who wouldn’t begin to scrutinize their own happiness? I’m of sound mind that writers do more scrutinizing than everyone else and that it’s largely how we survive. 

That is, until an a-ha moment occurs and with it, so does the shift. Someone calls me her treasure. She says I am limited edition and her inspiration, and that it’s because of my joy. It shocks me back into remembering the true meaning of this and every season.

I can be present for someone who is suffering, be that beacon when they can otherwise find none. I am needed by someone whose life is just beginning, someone trying to navigate her way through a harsh world. She requests my wisdom, though I am no scholar. The task is daunting, yet it fills me with purpose I hadn’t experienced in a long while. But people find their way into our orbit because they’re meant to be there. The world is a massive place, and we cannot possibly encounter everyone within it, so we are sent the chosen few who can impact us for good or bad, and those whom we are designed to impact. 

Because the best lessons arrive in the form of those who challenge our way of life. 

They make us want to become better, more fulfilled versions of ourselves by encouraging us to take a risk.

They manage to reinstate our faith in the world somehow, because it’s not about manufactured images of the season but rather, authentic connection even in its simplest form—through the giving and sharing, and the joy that results.  

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