A cartoon in the November 27th issue of The New Yorker shows a woman entering her living room where her husband is sitting on the couch with his laptop open. The caption reads: I thought I would wander around, vaguely forgetting what I was just doing until the Presidency is over.
Oftentimes I feel alone in my feelings. The cartoon, along with recent stories from friends, gives me comfort in knowing I’m part of something bigger. It’s the holidays. I should be suffering from sleepless nights and bloating brought on by cookie dough and binge eating. But no, I’m well-rested and have lost two pounds since Thanksgiving.
The malaise I’m experiencing is insidious and instead of humming Silent Night while waiting in line at the grocery store, I find myself tapping my foot to Mr. Grinch replacing the lyrics with something more appropriate:
You’re a mean one, Mr. Trump.
You really are a heel,
You’re as cuddly as a cactus, you’re as charming as an eel, Mr. Trump,
You’re a bad banana with a greasy black peel!
I’ve gotten as far as hanging lights from the wood beams in the cabin. At night it looks like a Christmas wonderland. By day, it’s business as usual. But here’s the thing. I don’t care. I haven’t done much shopping, party planning, or baking. Christmas cards? Forget it. I don’t even have a turkey in the freezer. The Christmas-loving perfectionist in me is taking a pass this year.
But there is more to this. Out of the political ashes rises the Phoenix, or in this case, the meaning of Christmas. Without the hustle and bustle, I have plenty of time for friends and family. This past week I took a trip to Washington with a dear friend and her family where I learned something about fine wine and Leavenworth, a little Bavarian-esque town tucked away in the Cascade Mountains devoted to keeping the Christmas spirit alive. I spent an afternoon decorating Christmas cookies with our three-year-old granddaughter who took such delight in her creations, she took a bite out of nearly every cookie she decorated. My husband and I bought ourselves a hot tub for Christmas. It’s our new go-to place at the end of the day. A place where we can relax and chat about whatever comes to mind. My mom and I are hosting a Christmas Eve dinner for folks who don’t have family nearby, and it reminds me how lucky I am to still have my mom. So many of my friends have lost their parents.
Instead of running around checking things off an impossible holiday to-do list, I have had time to reflect on this past year. We had a bumper crop of apples but few pomegranates. These mysteries keep me connected to God and faith. I received a card from someone who means everything to me. Her gesture gives me hope for the future. I have made some new friends and said goodbye to some old. Sometimes it’s okay to let go. Another year has gone by, and I haven’t sold my manuscript. Patience and tenacity are virtues I struggle with. We lost our little dog, Kipper, and the three baby owls I had come to love. Grief is powerful. It’s easy to get stuck. A friend shared her love of bird watching with me. Through their songs I have learned there is delight in little things.
Here it is, the morning of December 22nd. The dogs and cats are fed and resting. Little birds are vying for their perches out on the bird feeders, and I’m still in my pajamas. Life goes on. This Christmas I am looking forward to a good meal with family and friends followed by midnight Mass.