We all know this holiday season tends to bring out the worst in people, despite (and perhaps because of) all the fa la la la las and be of good cheers, gift giving, merrymaking, mistletoe-kissing and the rest of it. I have happily managed to somehow skate above all of it, the melancholy I mean, the snarly nastiness, the stressed out insanity. I do keep the holiday low key, focusing on church rather than on shopping; focusing on the deep truth of light returning during the darkest season; focusing more on singing and being happy with friends, the warmth of their presence, the shared expressions of affection. But I am just as connected to other humans, though I sometimes wish I wasn't, and I am sensitive to the reigning spirit of a time, and yesterday the melancholy caught up with me. It had been dogging my steps for a few days now, getting perilously close the moment I admitted to myself, "This is not an easy time of year to be a solitary person."
Because solitude is the burden, the cross, that I bear. Sometimes joyfully. Sometimes, however, it feels like an icy cold weight, hissing words of despair.
With this chronic depression, I have often felt damped down by the holiday season and what I felt to be its incessant demand that we Be of Good Cheer, that we celebrate family and loved ones (even when they are a source of sadness and pain). That we were supposed to be happy, damn it, and if we weren't, then we were doing something wrong. Placing my attention on the deeper spiritual light of the season--be it pagan celebrations of the Solstice, or of the birth of Christ, or even on the gloriously huge full moon I witnessed setting in a lavender grey western sky this morning, have helped me stay on the brighter side of the line. Focusing on the light, whatever its source. Until yesterday, that is, as I said.
Maybe because it was such a dankly grey and dismal day! It was raining, a light icy rain falling on a half foot of snow. I was thankful my friend Krystal gave me a ride home from church. She and some other friends and I had shared in the lighting of the Advent candle of peace. We had told our assembled congregation that we believe true peace happens when we have peace within our own hearts, despite what is going on around us. Anyway, she let me off and I came into the house, plugged in the Christmas tree lights, and lit the white candle that sits beside my little Nativity scene. It is carved of white and softly orange soapstone, and came from Peru. I like how the candlelight shines into the tiny stable filled with animals, shepherds, wise men and the holy family--they are all praying, even the baby Jesus! I see the candle flame as the light of the glorious solitary star that lit the way to baby Jesus's stable bed. I like the tiny colored lights on my tree too. The strand of lights is longer than the tree can bear and so I loop it around to decorate the front window too. My tree is a potted Norfolk Island pine, about 4 feet tall. I had bought it at K-Mart in a tacky holiday pot when it was about 4 inches tall, 9 years ago, our first Christmas alone after leaving the farm. The tree is adorned simply-- with the lights, with snowflakes I had crocheted from thread many years ago when I lived with the X (crafts were one way I kept myself relatively sane during that harrowing time), tiny icicles, strands of iridescent purple beads, and small ornaments. I do not want to overwhelm the tree, and it looks so lovely and elegant, decorated so simply.
I put on a CD of Celtic Christmas music, mostly instrumental, and started cleaning the 3 aquariums. The music proved to intensify my melancholy, I soon realized. I began to have thoughts, like Scrooge, of Christmases past, of loved ones long gone, of times when I was younger and still hopeful and still happy enough with the presence of my Grandmother nearby, my Aunt, her boys when they were children. The closeness, the familiarity, the tradition and its suggestion of permanence and safety. All that is gone now. My daughter is growing older and farther away from me. I have been alone these many days, decorating the house and the tree, wrapping gifts, planning meals and buying the ingredients I need to make the Christmas Mousse Pie. She has not shared in any of this with me and I recollected times when she was small and her eyes were bright with reflected lights. That first Christmas alone, when we had walked home from Christmas Eve candlelight worship and discovered gifts left for us on our front porch. From whom? Santa? Or the Christmas she and Little Bear and I were at my Aunt's, just us because everyone was sick with a stomach flu. Times gone by, never to return. Thinking all this, I looked at Bumby, such a constant, loving companion, asleep there on my bed, and I thought of how someday she too will be gone. And I will still be here, present, feeling somehow eternal inside, and still solitary, yes, still solitary.
Blah! I went out and changed the music. I should know better than to listen to CDs with photos of snow covered ruined churches on them! I finished cleaning the aquariums, I made myself some food, I wrapped my daughter's gifts. I took care of myself, rested when I felt tired, settled on the couch with a book and a cup of tea. I lit more candles, I turned on more lights. I consigned the shadows to obscurity for a time. They always come back, but as it says in the Gospel of John, chapter 1, verse 5 : "The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has never put it out."
Hallelujah and Amen.
Until next time, I remain, your friend, Rozenkraai
(Image is a photo of Canis Major, the Christmas star.)
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