days // hours // minutes

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we all have our comforts. 

those things that draw us in and bring us a sense of warmth during these final months of the year. the spirit of celebration and nostalgia begins to burn within our hearts, as if kindled by the colder air and swirling leaves in tones of red and gold. 

comforts and warmth are part of the season. these final two months that grace the year are full of so many things unique to them, and only them.

 perhaps it is why we look at our calenders and count the days like children, eager for whispering snow and silver bells. 

how many more minutes 'till Christmas?

i've always been the nostalgic one. the one that looks with fond memories over each tradition, each carefully packed away decoration. the smell of pine makes me dream of late winter nights spent with my sister, pouring over our brightly coloured pictures and decorating the tree on November 1st. 

it's only 365 days between each visit, you know. 

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but why does it feel so long between?

and why do i want it to come so fast this year? 

i'm catching myself drinking peppermint hot chocolate and longing to slip The Holiday or White Christmas into the DVD player. breaking my own firm rules: nothing Christmas until at least November. 

but we still have three full days until the eleventh month. i'm counting the days till Christmas on my fingers and toes. this sentimentality is killing me. 

perhaps Christmas is my comfort. the carols, the tinkling bells. the smells of pine and snow, the aroma that winter alone carries in its pocket. 

perhaps it is celebrating the start of my salvation. the stepping from gold to straw. from cries of Holy to cries for food and comfort from the throat of the King. 

God to Man combined. 

and so i will snuggle up with my peppermint hot chocolate, breaking my own little rule.

and this little girl will sit, counting... 

57 days. 1,364 hours. 81,864 minutes.

Peppermint Wishes

Winter came down to our home one night
Quietly pirouetting in on silvery-toed slippers of snow,
And we, we were children once again.
~Bill Morgan, Jr.

There is something so magical about this time of year.

It's wintertime.

Christmastime.

The snowflakes are falling, whispering their gentle way from the grey sky to join hundreds of their compatriots that already coat the frozen ground.

Sparkling lights adorn the eaves of roofs and twinkling Christmas trees can be seen peeping through the curtains of darkened homes.

The air smells of ice, balsam, hot chocolate, peppermint sticks, and the wishes of hundreds of children who dream of Santa Claus and brimming stockings.

Fireplaces flicker over the toes of children, clustered around while carols play from the stereo and laughter provides its own merry soundtrack to the homey scene laid out to delight any casual passerby.

Christmas does something to my heart.

I love the sight of a fresh-cut pine tree, adorned with white lights and sentimental ornaments, almost toppling over from the lift of the carefully wrapped packages that have been secretly placed there by loving hands.

I love the whisper of the falling snow and the smell of the frosty air that burns and delights your nose at the same time.

It's only at this time of year when I crave the taste of peppermint -- a taste which I normally avoid.

My nose itches to smell cinnamon spice and "Winter Balsam" candles. My ears tingle at the sound of some instrumental Christmas arrangement, or the thudding heartbeat of the Trans-Siberian Orchestra blasting from my iPod dock.

Call me a child. Call me a sentimental fool.

I don't care.

It's Christmas.

It's a time for peppermint wishes and sugerplum dreams.

It's the most magical time of the year -- when blizzards can be forgiven and the troubles of the morning are glazed over in the love of a family and the flavor of gingerbread.

If growing up means I have to leave this all behind...if it means I must become sensible and view Christmastime as nothing but a mad rush to spend money and obtain obscene amounts of stress...

...then I never want to grow up.