I was slowed by what appears to be a good-old-fashioned common cold this first week of December, and this morning I found my 61-year-old self writing a letter to Santa. I would like to share it with you.
Dear Santa:
Thank you for continuing to personify jolly, bountiful, magical generosity and goodwill for this red-haired child and senior citizen of the universe. I am grateful that I have never lost you to cynicism.
I wish for more peace in the world, Santa. Always have, always will. My birthday cakes will testify. Please bring comfort to the children, Santa, when trauma comes. Drop seeds that grow maps that will help them find their way.
Bring us all ease and relief and healing and vision and rest and resilience and creativity and curiosity and really good questions.
Bring us the courage to do it all in such a different way we barely recognize ourselves, so Earth can catch a break.
Please don’t give up on us Earthlings, Santa. You’ve got the lists.
You know we are mostly good even with all our wanting and warring. You know how we struggle.
Santa, I have been told that I sound like you when I laugh, and that is such a compliment to me. It is an honor to sound like you. May my belly shake like a bowl full of jelly without apology. May my eyes twinkle as they crinkle. May I bring joy and comfort whenever and wherever I can. May I use what charm I have to spread love and the essence of possibility. May I give widely.
One more thing, Santa. Please help us awaken to the just-rightness of our very selves (which contains the word elves!), help us unsubscribe from the “myth of normal” and embrace our particular God and the universe-given qualities with pride and evergreen self-love and respect. When more inner wars end, perhaps more outer wars will too.
Thank you Santa, for being one of my greatest teachers.
I love you dearly.
Denise Cottingham
Chehalis
