It is Christmas Day 2019.
Sydney skies are grey with cloud. The smoke from summer bushfires seems to have lifted.
We decided to spend our summer holiday on the road visiting friends and relatives around the country.
Heading down the coast from Tamborine Mountain we drove into more bush fires around Port Macquarie, Taree, skirting Sydney heading for Canberra the sky was yellow and the air difficult to breath. From Canberra heading to the coast more fires at Braidwood, Victoria was green relief but heading into Adelaide the hills were crested in billowing smoke and a pall of smoke lay over the landscape from Hay until we reached Sydney.
In my 58 Christmases, I have never known our country to be suffering under so many fires in so many places.
A bush fire is a frightening experience and the devastation for communities across Australia must be a bitter pill.
On this day, this Christmas Day so many will be struggling with the aftermath of bush fires, of exhaustion, of dislocation.
On this day this Christmas Day, so many ideals are pinned. The ideal party, family gathering, gratitude and celebration, hope and peace. But life isn’t always like that.
I remember the feeling two months after my late husband had died. The shops screamed at me to celebrate, spend, party. Everybody was doing it…but not me…or that was how it felt. I am grateful for some pragmatic children who came up with a plan- to celebrate a goth Christmas., my husbands empty chair at the table, a sense of humour, and a firm nod to his tragic passing but also a nod to the going forward and a shaking of the head and fist at the so called traditions of Christmas shopping must dos.
Things have indeed changed over the proceeding years. Every Christmas is different. Different locations, different people around the table of picnic rug. A moving feast….one not everyone can cope with joining.
I tip my hat to the ones for whom this is one of the most difficult days. Days of enduring, remembering and avoiding.
This too shall pass and the smoke will clear.