I did not expect it to appear so easily, and three weeks ahead of schedule. But really, the notion of a day on the calendar having a monopoly on joy is preposterous. The illusion of waiting for magic to begin melts like a snowflake on my hands. 

 

This week I walked into the preschool with my guitar, as I have done many times before, and we practiced for their Christmas Program. You know, the one that will render their mothers misty and their fathers proud. 

 

 For them, this is as epic as their scant years can conceive. They will wear costumes? Sing songs? Play bells? At the same time? 

 

Practicing their songs was sweet. I resist calling it a rehearsal because the celebration had already arrived. Their dear faces were as precious as my heart could hold. 

 

How often do I miss the wonder of the present moment, in my preoccupation for what lies ahead? Often, if I am honest. 

 

I am home now, and the music is playing. There are lights on the tree, and the first fifty ornaments are perched on willing branches. There is no rush, I realize, to finish, or get it right. Today is a ripe time for gratitude, and for breathing in the contentment that waits for me.