Growing up, I adored holidays. Whether it was Christmas, Easter, Thanksgiving, a birthday or Halloween, every single one meant weeks of anticipation, followed by a day (or sometimes more) full of traditions with family and friends.
Over the past few years, some of that excitement waned. I tried to get into each one, but before long, Halloween was spent hiding in the basement, Thanksgivings passed without my mother's dressing (which, apparently, in Ontario would be called stuffing), birthdays became low-key affairs and even Christmas lost some of its sheen.
Other people stepped up, trying to build my excitement, but I'd lost some of my zeal. Some days I even had trouble faking enthusiasm for life, when every day was simply just another day to get through.
But this week, I'm starting the task of reclaiming holidays. I'm spending time with friends, including a potluck dinner, and going on a hike, then capping off the weekend with my own home-cooked (hopefully) Thanksgiving feast. Including my mother's dressing. And then, come Friday, I'm celebrating my birthday, my way.
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