Oh I get in snits, alright. It happens from time to time. Generally as a result of overwhelming psychic pain---my own, which of course shines with the intensity of the sun in my own personal psychic pain galaxy. But also, that of the people I love. And there's been a lot of it going around lately.*

I asked a dear friend who is so wise, to recommend a book for my daughter for Christmas. Santa likes to give each of my kids a book each year. My friend suggested John Green's "The Fault In Our Stars." But I decided against it. (What Santa gave my daughter instead is wholly inappropriate and wrong. It sits unread on a shelf, which is appropriate.) "The Fault" deals with issues of mortality and cancer. I had a brush with cancer last year and thought the topic might not convey proper holiday cheer. Of course, I was wrong and my daughter and my wise friend were completely right. Dear Girl bought the book two weeks ago because, as she said, "I've been hearing GREAT things about this." Indeed. 

The book Santa bought for my son for Christmas, "Different Seasons" by Stephen King, was the right and the wrong choice. I thought I'd read the whole book. Not so. I'd read the famous stories, but not the other two. When he finished, I picked it up.  And so discovered my ability to pick the wrong book, to not convey proper holiday cheer, apparently borders on genius. Anyone ever read "Apt Pupil"? I can't believe I gave that book to my son as a gift. (My Darling, I'm so very very VERY sorry.) Its the most disturbing story I've ever read. Reading all of it was the least I could do for my son, to not leave him alone there. So I read it. May I never read such ghastliness in fictional form again. Realistic horror of the spirit is not my favorite genre. 

In the same spirit of shared burdens and willingness to move with my kids through all things dark and difficult, I asked to read "The Fault" next. I'm 100 pages in. Its brilliant. Its searing. Its truthful to a rare extreme. A paragraph in the second chapter nearly caused me to gasp and sob on the floor of the waiting room at the orthodontist yesterday. Of all the characters and all their individual constellations of pain, right now the Dad is the one who breaks my heart most. But I'm sure that may change as we go along.

I told my husband, last night, that I feel mushy inside and too tender. He asked what I need and I said I need to be carried gently in cupped hands. I think that's all we can do for each other---cup our hands to help each other land softly. Love each others children. Read each others stories. Listen carefully, walk together, try to remember compassion. Forget. Try again, better this time. And for myself, blow off all housework as long as possible. My daughter just asked me to please do a load of laundry. Time to get over my snit and back to work. Right after I finish this novel...

*If your name is indicated by two concurrent initials and you worry about this exact thing--friends picking up your own psychic radiation--please know I carry yours lightly, as something held in a turtle shell or the spaces between dandelion thistles. Which is not to say your heart has no radiant pain, but only, it isn't a burden. And, compared to other suns in other galaxies around me, is not as dire as some. Which is a sad sort of good news that I dearly hope continues to be true for you for a very long time.