There’s an itchy spot on my left hand, in the webbing between my index finger and my thumb, and I’m delighted that it’s there.
Okay, maybe “delighted” is going a bit too far, but even though it’s a bit irksome at times, the itch itself was caused by something rather wonderful: I made a holiday wreath this past weekend, and some prickly pine needles jabbed into that webbing and gave me a rash. This may not seem like anything that’s particularly unique or unusual—after all, people make holiday wreaths all the time, right?—but there’s something rather special about this particular wreath: I made it to hang on the front door of my own home.
My. Own. Home.
For someone who has been living in rented apartments for the better part of 17 years, this is really quite monumental. The wreath is made from evergreen boughs that I gathered from the woods behind our home, and the branches I didn’t use for the wreath were placed in a vase for a table centrepiece. I’ve drawn bits of beauty from my land and gathered them into my home, to decorate it in celebration of a holiday that never meant much to me before I met my in-laws, and I couldn’t be more thankful.