There’s a nightlight in my bathroom. It looks like a Christmas tree bulb, a whole seven watts. In the daytime, its light extends for just a few inches and isn’t noticeable unless you are looking at it. But at night those seven watts illuminate the whole room.
Hold that thought.
My last Christmas in college found me struggling to make sense of a world tumbling out of control. My mother’s sudden death and other changes had come too close together and left me disoriented, barely functioning.
As the holidays came to a close, I found one touchstone to my past. Hopelessly tangled in a chain link fence, way too close to a busy, smog-choked street, was an ugly, nearly dead rosebush. Long neglected and constantly abused by the mailman who broke off pieces so he could get into my mailbox without drawing blood, the bush had not bloomed in the months I had lived there. Continue reading