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Palms

My December 2016



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DECEMBER, dear writers, is a month full to the brim.
 
These 31 days contain ritual and family, celebration and contemplation, gift giving and gift receiving, traveling and staying put. December, for some, means time off; for others, working extra hours.  December inspires both reflection on the past year and projection into the future. And depending on where you live, this month means wildly contrasting weather. In Perth, Australia, December marks the middle of summer—sundrenched and hot. In Quebec City, Canada, December is icy and dark, the light draining from the sky by mid-afternoon. 
  
Dear writers, we want to know what December means to you. What does this month look like in your part of the world? What about these 31 days do you hold close? In a reflection/fragment /narrative /poem, tell us something specific and particular about your December. We’ll feature our favorites on the Write the World blog, with December photos from the authors.  

Need some inspiration? 
 
Kenneth Graham (The Wind in the Willows)
“The rapid nightfall of mid-December had quite beset the little village as they approached it on soft feet over a first thin fall of powdery snow. Little was visible but squares of a dusky orange-red on either side of the street, where the firelight or lamplight of each cottage overflowed through the casements into the dark world without.
 
John Geddes (A Familiar Rain)
“...when I was a kid, Toronto streets were deserted and quiet on Sundays, except for the sound of church bells I stood on the sidewalk one December listening to the Christmas bells - I've never forgotten that moment...” 
 
Dave Eggers (A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius)
Through the small tall bathroom window the December yard is gray and scratchy, the tree calligraphic. Exhaust from the the dryer billows clumsily out form the house and up, breaking apart while tumbling into the white sky.

Michael Noonan (The December Boys)
Every dozen strides, Teresa let a few crushed petals trickle from her hand, and they shone like clusters of tiny flowers in the dry summer grass. We jogged along at an easy run past the tumbledown camp once occupied by the unemployed, then up the southern hillside, puffing behind the garden of Mr Watson the amateur winemaker. We glimpsed him standing among the tomato plants that were hung with big green and red berries as if still decked out with Christmas decorations. He was wearing a jungle style pith helmet, and his beard hung from his face like a swarm of smoky bees.

Peter Yarrow (Light One Candle) 
Light one candle for the strength that we need
To never become our own foe
And light one candle for those who are suffering
Pain we learned so long ago
Light one candle for all we believe in
That anger not tear us apart
And light one candle to bind us together
With peace as the song in our hearts