It’s a strange sensation, moving in waves to yet another transition period in my life. I don’t know why it takes a prolonged time away from my day-to-day to gain perspective, but it does- a weekend away, or even a week away doesn’t do it. There is something about two weeks, though, that allows me to open up and breathe and really think things through, while also letting them go at the same time.

The last time I was away for two weeks, I was down on the Gulf Coast living with Red Cross volunteers. This time, I’m in New York, living with my family. And the turning point, the relaxing moment in the center of my chest, really only happened about five minutes ago. But without that moment, that turning point, that brief period when I truly let go of expectation, I’d be lost. It is waaaaay too easy for me to fall into utter self-absorption and it takes something extreme- like being faced with the rural poor of southern America, or two weeks away from my friends, life and job- to remember to let go.

One of my leadership coaches has spoken to me at length about my expectations. Until recently, I thought that expectations were okay, really- that perhaps I should count on people to behave a certain way, even if I knew it wasn’t in their nature, and that I had reason to be disappointed when they behaved differently. But I think that these expectations have been at the root of most of my heartache and discontent. It’s a terribly difficult thing to give up, because sometimes giving up expectations feels a lot like giving up hope. And no matter how many times I’ve been disappointed, no matter how many times I’ve been metaphorically kicked in the teeth, no matter how many times I’ve disappointed myself, somehow, hope endures. You’d think, by now, it wouldn’t, but even in the depths of my hopelessness, even when in the middle of my yearly breakdown in the car on the way home from Christmas, hope endures. I guess I’m in the middle of separating hope from expectations, and it is a painful divide.

But my hopes, oh, they could fill a house. Part of me feels like I should be more thankful for the life I already have. I know that what it feels like for me to go to work every day is about a billion times better than how millions feel about going to work. And yet… and yet… I want more. I want to feel like I am truly, honestly, fully living up to what I can do, every single day. I want to make good on the promises I’ve made myself, and to honor the Fates who blessed me with what can be an annoyingly clear focus.

And I want more kisses that leave me breathless.

It’s four days to Christmas, and all of the Williams kids are in New York. It’s delightful. Last night, three brothers, two wives, two nephews, one girlfriend, the mom, and little ‘ol me all slept in the same house- a two-bedroom house, mind you- and all morning I’ve been wandering from room to room, because someone interesting and awesome is in every space. This is Christmas to me. I certainly enjoy the giving and getting of extremely cool gifts, but this is the truly good stuff.

Of course, I am also in New York during the transit strike, which has put a major wrinkle in my holidays plans, but it means more time with my family, and I have no complaints. Yesterday, Jordana and I spent all day shopping in Queens, and even though it was brutal cold, even though we got a flat tire, it was still a really good day. And now there are a number of us in my brother Sean’s bedroom, watching C-Span, talking abou ANWAR and bitching about the strike. Call me crazy, but this is my kind of vacation.

And today, later this afternoon, I’ll be seeing an old friend I haven’t seen in twenty years. That right there is an extraordinary Christmas present. All I need now is a pony.