tim’s thought property

As I sit here, bundled up in my thrifted beige cardigan, sipping my dark roast French Pressed coffee, I look outside to see the snowflakes gently drifting to the earth. I hold the warm mug in both my hands, smelling the sweet aroma of arabica beans, grown in Indonesia, and I close my eyes and think of the warmth that is holding me indoors.
The tree outside is lit up with the money saving LED lights; all sixty-two feet of pine, like seasonal stereotype put to work in old-suburban perfection. As the shoveled driveway gets a new sprinkling of snow, I get up to wander to the kitchen to find racks of tasty cookies and treats cooling on the table. The counters are a quiet mess of bowls, spoons, flour and wax paper, all left over from the remnants of what is to become the new addition to my figure this winter. As I walk to the window above the sink, I see the deep night sky, black, with faint spots of light twinkling back at earth, not unlike the lights blinking in the front of the house.
My breath reveals itself on the glass and I press my finger against it. It’s colder than it looks, and so is the outdoors. This season re-enforces the knowledge of warmth being indoors. All at once, I get up and put on my coat, buttoning up the four buttons. With a scarf around my neck and a toque on my head, I walk out the door to the outside.
The cold chill of Winter greets me, along with ten-thousand small and lilting flakes, each one different and particular. I walk down the drive to the front lawn and look at my breath that escapes my mouth. As it puffs out in a small burst, it floats outward and upward before it disappears. I set down my coffee mug and fall back into the snowbank on my front lawn. I look up at the moon, stars and pine tree. Three sources of light, three different kinds of light I see, all upwards. One in a big glowing orb, to my left; the basis of the night sky - stars, all in front of my view; and the colourful tree to my right.
And as distracting as the season gets, with Capitalism growing to the rich flower of greed that it so happens to become; as traditional as it becomes with canned music playing in every public building; and as temporary as it can be, with the push to be peaceful and loving at this time of the year only - and amidst all of this, I find in the light some semblance of the meaning of what Christmas is supposed to be about.

Away from the noise, away from the distraction, away from all the bustle.
Take time to reflect upon what this time of year means to you.