I do not recognize what our country has become in the first year of the Trump administration.
I did not vote to have American citizens terrorized and killed by masked ICE agents. I did not vote to invade Venezuela or to threaten Greenland, Canada, or Mexico. I did not vote to dismantle decades-old alliances that have helped prevent another world war. I did not vote for unaffordable healthcare. I did not vote to have my personal data scraped from government databases and handed over without consent. I did not vote for the Department of Justice to become an extension of the White House. I did not vote for massive tariffs that are paid, not by foreign governments, but by American consumers.
I did vote to have the Epstein files released — a legal obligation the DOJ continues to delay, to hide what?
I did not vote for Congress to abdicate its constitutional authority and govern by obedience instead. That is not leadership. That is failure.
You are failing to do your job. You do not deserve to be re-elected — assuming we are still allowed future elections at all.
I used to receive lots of Christmas cards every year, but that number has dwindled over time. Only a handful arrived this year. I understand why. Cards are expensive. Stamps are even more expensive. We stay in touch online now through email, texts, and social media, so cards don’t carry the same sense of connection they once did, back in the days before constant digital communication.
But relationships drift, too. People I felt close to during one stage of my life may no longer be as close now. Should I still send a card to someone I worked with eighteen years ago? Or do I wait to see if she sends one first, and then respond in kind? And if I send mine first, does she send one back simply because I did? Eighteen years is a long time to go without seeing each other or being in contact except at Christmas. Maybe it’s time to let go – gently, and with appreciation for the roles we once played in each other’s lives.
Letting go of people is hard, because we share a past but not always a present. Still, letting go doesn’t diminish what once was; it simply acknowledges where we are now.
It’s about more than Christmas or birthday cards. It’s about wondering whether sending a text would feel welcome or intrusive. If we’re no longer in regular contact, does that mean something is wrong? Or does it simply mean our paths have diverged, as they sometimes do? And that’s okay.
The uncertainty – how much emotional energy to invest in a relationship that may already be over – is a difficult place to live. It would be easier if we always knew where we stood, but life is messy. People don’t wear neon signs announcing what’s happening in their heads, their hearts, or their lives. I know I don’t, so why should anyone else?
What I can do is let go in small, honest ways. This year, I held back some cards I used to send regularly, just to see whether one might arrive first. None did. It wasn’t a test, just an assessment of where those relationships fit in my life now. I also went through my Gmail contact list and deleted people I haven’t communicated with—by email, text, or phone—in at least five years. I don’t miss them there. In truth, sometimes I wasn’t even sure who they were anymore.
Life moves forward whether we remain in touch with people from our past or not. It’s okay to let go with grace and gratitude for the time we shared, and then allow ourselves to drift—peacefully—toward different futures.
The annual UVA Glee Club Christmas Concert was one of the highlights of my holiday season when I lived in Charlottesville, Virginia. Most of the program, quite rightly, belonged to the Glee Club — it was their concert, after all — but a few beloved carols were woven in so the audience could join and sing along.
The true centerpiece, though, was always “The Twelve Days of Christmas.”
The auditorium was divided into sections, each assigned to one of the twelve days. I’m fairly sure the Glee Club themselves sang “A Partridge in a Pear Tree” and “Five Golden Rings,” but the remaining verses belonged to the audience. The assignments never changed from year to year, so if you dreamed of being a Calling Bird, you knew exactly where to sit. Over time those sections developed a wonderful sense of camaraderie, welcoming newcomers into their ranks. The Three French Hens section, in particular, was fiercely competitive about their seats and gloriously obnoxious when it came time to bellow out THREE FRENCH HENS.
At my very first concert, I had no idea any of this existed. I simply found a seat in the upper left balcony… and discovered that, like it or not, I had become a Seven Swan. Swans are elegant, I thought — I can live with that. But then I found myself returning to the same section year after year, spotting familiar faces, making exaggerated eye-rolls at the French Hens, and feeling a little sympathy for the poor Lords a-Leaping who were banished to the back of the hall. They had their own rituals, of course.
Before long, swans followed me into the rest of my life. A hand-carved wooden swan from an antiques shop came home with me. Then swan jewelry. Swan art. And naturally, swan ornaments for my tree. The identity stuck.
Another cherished Glee Club tradition was the annual Messiah Sing-In. Much to my delight, the altos sang from – where else – the Seven Swans section. Different music, same perch. We built friendships there too, meeting up with fellow altos from church choirs across town. A pick-up orchestra appeared each year, and the rules were simple: everyone sang the choruses, and each voice part sang one solo together. If you’d always dreamed of singing a soprano solo but were really a tenor, you could sing along — but you were only allowed to stand if you were seated in the appropriate section.
The Glee Club director, who was also my church choir director, led the Sing-In like an enormous choir rehearsal. He would stop us mid-chorus to announce that we were terrible and then explain exactly how to fix it — which, for me, only made the whole thing more delightful. We didn’t stop with the Christmas portions, either. We sang through the entire work: all the choruses and one solo per section, finishing with the thunderous “Worthy Is the Lamb” and “Amen.” Our ears rang, our throats ached, and we left filled to the brim with the joy of sharing that glorious music with others who loved it in the same way.
I love Christmas and all the things that come with it: my tree with its treasured ornaments and garlands of gold beads, the child’s nativity, festive nutcrackers, a collection of angels, sparkly snowmen. The wreaths, seasonal pillows, and bowls of shiny ornaments. I love the music, the sappy movies, and the Christmas cards that arrive in ever-smaller numbers each year.
But everything looks so cluttered, and it’s making me antsy.
I need the things I use often to be within easy reach of my wheelchair, and with limited storage space, that means things tend to pile up. Having everything out can feel cluttered even on a good day; add all the Christmas extras, and my clutter tolerance just boils over. The cats don’t help. They have their own clutter—toys scattered about, packing paper to nestle into on the floor, and a few boxes because, well… cats. I know I’m the boss and can do whatever I want, including putting it all away—but I want them to be happy, too.
So I’ll put up with most of the clutter. Christmas is a short season, though it actually runs to Epiphany, which means it lasts twelve days longer for me than for those who take down the tree on Christmas afternoon. Still, there are changes I’m already planning for January, and I want to incorporate some intentional visual clutter reduction once the Christmas things are packed away until next December. Right now it’s hard to picture anything that’s normal and not so festive, but it always happens.
I moved six months ago this week, and I’ve discovered both small and large things that I brought with me but don’t really need—or want—to keep. I’ll need boxes larger than the Chewy boxes currently on the floor to collect them for a trip to the thrift store. In the meantime, I’ll set up a spot where I can stash those items until I find a box or two. I already have two bags of clothes ready to go.
But not until after Christmas. First things first.
Merry Christmas! I’m not sure whether I’ll be sending cards this year, but I still wanted to send Christmas greetings to my friends far and near. I hope this digital version will work just as well.
It’s been quite a year for me. The biggest change was an enormous, out-of-the-blue decision to move from my home in Tyler to Bryan/College Station to be closer to family. Still Texas, of course, but a very different part of it: instead of the piney woods and rolling East Texas hills, I’m now three hours away in Central Texas, just 30 minutes from my brother and close to my niece Lisa and her family. I spent Thanksgiving at my brother’s ranch for the first time in five years, and it was such a joy to be surrounded by so much family at once. He even bought a ramp so I could get into the house, and there were many willing hands to help me navigate inside. I’ve seen more family in the last five months than in the previous three years combined, and I’ve loved every minute of it. This is why I moved and it’s definitely been worth it.
Moving was nowhere in my plans when 2025 began. But around Easter I realized how much I wanted to be closer to my people, and from there everything snowballed. I did hours of online research into various communities, while my brother and sister-in-law made multiple scouting trips to take photos, measurements, and videos. Thanks to them, the actual move and move-in went far more smoothly than I ever could have managed on my own—especially important since I had never even been to the city, much less to the complex I chose until Move-In Day. But now we’re here and settled, and the cats and I have adjusted nicely. They still think I should have packed up their beloved screen porch and brought it along, but we’re negotiating options.
Of course, no good move of mine would be complete without medical drama. The day before the movers arrived, I learned that I had a retina tear and a partial detachment. My Tyler doctor coordinated with a retina specialist here, and two days after the move I had eye surgery. It reminded me a bit of my last move to Meadow Lake, when I fell four days after arriving and spent the next stretch mastering the hospital/rehab routine. I’ve been told that at the rate I’m going, I’m destined to have something go wrong every time I relocate—so I should probably stay put. That is, in fact, the plan.
My biggest project this year was a book of ancestor stories for the family. I’ve wanted to do this for ages, but could never quite get myself into a rhythm. I tend to get gloriously sidetracked when doing genealogy, and this project needed structure. Enter ChatGPT, which became an unexpected collaborator and changed the way I research and write. After six months of steady work, the book was finished in time for Christmas. It traces the four lines that match my grandparents and tells the stories of couples from my parents back to my Flanders ancestors in the late 1500s. I’m still researching—because it’s fun, and because I’m good at it—and I’m currently very happily buried in 16th-century archival records.
All that updated research also led me to apply for membership in the Daughters of the American Revolution. While my mother’s family came from Great Britain in the mid-1800s, my father’s North Carolina roots stretch back for generations. I knew I had Revolutionary War patriot ancestors among those lines, but wasn’t sure I had enough documentation to meet the DAR standards. I should know by Christmas whether I’ve been approved, and I’m hopeful.
Ellie and Emma continue to be my cherished companions and household supervisors. They can usually be found sleeping in boxes on my bed or napping in their chosen observation posts in the living room, where they can keep an eye on me between naps. They graciously allow me to share the bed at night, though it’s definitely a tight fit.
Wishing you peace, joy, and moments of light this Christmas season—and all good things in the New Year.
Random Thoughts of a Disordered Mind 