Sometimes the thought of Christmas is so vast that it seems overwhelming. It's the awesomeness of the traditions, the collective weight of childhood memories that still shine in my soul, the urge to create magic, to bring beauty into my home, to give gifts that show my loved ones the deepness of my love, and behind it all the longing to be touched again by the silent miracle that angels sang of long ago.
And when I think about all I want to make and give and bake and achieve, I feel the pressure of time pushing against my plans, and wonder where on earth I can begin.
And so, with endless lists and plans and dreams flocking through my mind I begin by making my wreath. I gather scraps of red and green from the garden whilst my little boy sleeps, and twist and bind them until the sight of them make me smile.
I tie a ribbon from the top and I hang it on my door. And as I see it sitting there in a bright burst of December sunshine I smile knowing that one little dream can be released from the to do list in my mind, and that even though there are many more still to chase I've brought a tiny bit of beauty to my home; and that, at least, is a beginning.