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December 19, 2016

I grew up in Portland. I grew up poor. Times were good but they were also often tough, and they unfolded in a climate much less harsh than the one in Portland right now. Christmas is always a bittersweet time for poor families. There is the magic to be enjoyed, but there is also this terrible eye stinging stress in hoping to make it as magical as possible, at least as magical as the kid across the street’s. Every so often we would have a Christmas where another family or an organization helped us out. We would get surprise gifts from strangers we never met, and it would be amazing. Things we wouldn’t have thought to ask or wish for were unwrapped, and there was this sense of a broader experience, of touching someone else’s soul in shadowland, adding a special glow of novelty.

It is a flat truth to say that one of these gifts changed my life. If I had not received a book I never would had read if someone hadn’t given it to me, I would not be the person I am today. All my life I had been the wrong shape for any paradigm I had encountered, regardless of my attempts to squeeze into them; suddenly in one trilogy I found the garden gate to the path that brought me here. This path never squeezed me. It stretched the shit out of me, I am as big as the sky when I used to be just as small as an acorn, or a thimble. It also sucked, I often felt like the butter over too much toast, or that one really funny villain on that only Dr Who episode I’ve ever seen, who is basically just some skin stretched in a frame yelling for moisturiser. But from then to now, my life has been different. My mind has been different. All because of a book.

This is why you can never really know the impact of an action, even after it has long since lost its relevance to you. Whoever donated that book to me has no idea how they altered the course of my life for the best, but I imagine to myself that they had an inkling. I imagine to myself that they selected everything they donated carefully, binding up in each item their hopes for joy and for the kind of world they wanted to see.

Every Christmas I try to be like them. I will be happy just as long as someone else gets joy, but I also hope that I could help someone out there the way I was helped by the kindness of others.

This year (and technically last year but hey sometimes apparently I take a really long time to finish things) I have been working (mostly at the last minute) on a dollhouse. One day I just decided that I wanted a dollhouse, I had always wanted a dollhouse, and I wanted to build this dollhouse. In interest of not becoming a crazy lady with a dollhouse hobby (I am not slamming the miniatures hobbyist; but I personally have so many other crazy lady traits layered up like so much fordite that I cannot afford to go slapping other ones on willy nilly) I decided to donate it when I was finished with it. In all its glorious glory.

This is literally all I thought about it, until after MUCH ANGST (where is the glorious glory?! Always at the end of a rainbow at the bottom of another paint can) the end is finally beginning to draw near. This shit is almost done, yo.

I am (naturally) running super close to the wire for still catching Christmas 2016; but I am hoping to be somebody’s little last minute Christmas miracle. I am going to list it on Nextdoor and Rooster. If anyone knows of any other ways to list it locally, let me know!

haus

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