Ben yelled last week. I was annoyed, what with being on a zoom call and uninterested in his displeasure. But John investigated, and found out that Ben wanted to go to an event that happened that day. I had not mentioned it to him, and had no plans to go. But he did. I softened, to realize that Benjamin has his own hopes for celebrating. John promised to take him when the call was over. The noise stopped. 

 

A neighbor told me what her daughter said years ago when loud pitched screaming was part of the Odhner routine, rather than the anomaly that it is now. 

 

"You know, we all wish we could howl sometimes."

 

I smiled. Having recently raised my volume in the cavern of a lonely parking garage, I could relate. 

 

Making noise is not necessarily a misstep. Having used my horn yesterday when a van was backing toward me, I was glad for the chance to make my presence known. 

 

The expectations at this time of year can be unrealistically sunny. The lilting music playing in every store, and the festive swags draped along people's fences, all portray the joyful side of Christmas. But no one can sustain elation forever. 

 

Would we want to? The rhythm of the ocean, and the fields, and the birds that have discovered the cache of seeds on my window all suggest otherwise. Without an ebb there is no room to flow. 

 

When the tide recedes, there are shells that appear in the foam. Perhaps it works that way with our feelings, too. The next time Ben unleashes his angst, I will try to remember that there are discoveries to be found in unrest, too.