I didn’t think I was going to die. It’s possible some of my family members did. It wasn’t that serious. It was just new, and never fully explained, and out of character for me to be incapacitated.
It was also just much too much to palpably feel my family worrying about me on top of the stress about work and my baseline angst about Christmas. So my second-happiest moment of last year’s holiday season was arriving back home at 1 PM on St. Stephen’s Day and fully committing to not acknowledging reality for the 19 hours before I had to return to work.
My plan was movies, a jigsaw puzzle, my favorite food and drink. I got a slow burning, frivolous, uncomfortable but ever-so-welcome, miracle.
“Miracle?” You say. To which I would tilt my head contemplatively until the smile crept irrepressibly to my lips, and I would nod and confirm. “Miracle.” The miracle was releasing my imagination to frolic unrestrained, something I had been starving for unnoticed for a long time. I didn’t know my imagination was straining at the leash like that. I didn’t know a few months of free mind play could heal two years (and more) or heartbreak, insecurity, and stress.
So my happiest moment of last year’s holiday season was the liberation of all those dreams. And my fancy did come gushing out, like a fire hydrant with a cap too-long stuck. And I owe it all to…well, I owe it all to Sherlock.
Ahem. Yes, that’s right. I am chalking up a year-long epiphany, opening to love, and a voracious current of creative juices, to the viewing of a television program so popular it is almost its own cliché.
And I stand by that attribution because it is a totem -something to look at when I feel dismayed or that I have lost my inspiration. It is a comfort -as any favorite book, or sweatshirt, or cup of hot chocolate is when faith flags, and life pinches. It is a standard-bearer easily kept in sight, as my lonely regiment of one marches a journey though hostile territory to unknown lands. It is an effective, and completely unaffected muse. It will never change, nor will its (non-existent) affections ever be changeable.
I remind myself every day that after hard times, in deep silence, Sherlock taught my mind to wander again. I am grateful. And I hope -and work- every day, to someday, somehow best my standard-bearer.