That blasted January bustle

To be sure, it's not my favorite day of the year, ranks among the worst, in fact, although there are others upcoming, I'm sure, that will make me forget totally about the ratty jobs coming up soon and very soon.

When I walked past the tree just now, I couldn't help to realize that seasonal joy will once again be coming down, along with the nutcrackers on the corner table and even the baby tree I have here behind me in the office space. It's end-of-season today, now that New Years is new no more. No more Christmas carols either; our smart speaker stopped pouring out glee a week ago.

What sprang to mind just now, literally, was the first line of a much-beloved little poem from the magical mind of Emily Dickinson, who had very little to say about Christmas actually, but much to say about death. 

Goes like this:

The bustle in a house

the Morning after Death

Is solemnest of industries

Conducted upon Earth.

We bought a tree this year, from Hobby Lobby too (half-price!), so there'll be no dying in the our little retirement place once the bustle begins. In fact, the  most dreaded aspect of this year's post-yuletide clean up is where on earth we're going to put the tree--garage somewhere, I'm sure, but our new digs aren't spacious.

That the holidays themselves are over once again for another year carries its requisite sadness, but just as difficult, it seems, is this morning's concurrent realization that what lies before us and around us out here on the edge of the plains is three months, maybe even four, of winter. I feel like I should change the font on that last word or toss in a picture--all right, I will.

Of this--

If we could only control snow and ice as easily as you can with one of those darling little knick-knacks where all you do is turn the thing over and snow falls like grace, heavenly snow. But out here winter (!) doesn't work that way. Nothing comes in feathers. Snow comes sideways starting right about now and continues for a third of this new year--2026; and what I'm saying is that the bustle in this house on the day we take down Christmas is among the solemnest of industries we'll undertake all year. We ought to make it its own kind of holiday to keep the spirits up. 

Meanwhile, there's another verse worth repeating:

The Sweeping up the Heart

And putting Love away

We shall not want to use again

Until Eternity –

And that's depressing too, but eternity is pushing it, I think. Then, who am I to judge Emily Dickinson? Let's say it this way: 

The Sweeping up the Tree

And putting love away

We shall not want to use again

Until Next year, mid-December.

Maybe a day or two earlier.

It's not the same I know, but this Monday morning I can't help thinking it.