I celebrated the holiday in the Berkshires with a dear friend and his family. The last time I saw most of them in person was 2018. I remember working on book edits at their dining room table that November. The future I was working toward still seemed very far away from me and the word document in front of me. At the end of the trip, inspired by the snow that had fallen overnight, I took a selfie on their porch. It became the author photo for my memoir’s hardcover edition.
It was a joy to be able to return to them this year. Every hug at the beginning and end of the trip lasted a few seconds longer than “normal.” I am learning that some declarations of gratitude, grief and survival are easier to physicalize rather than verbally express.
Recently, I suggested that we can use imaginative writing to call forth details that help us understand what we need in order to thrive. You can also meditate on a delight from your past in order to fully color your appreciation. An example from the holiday that’s vivid in my mind today: the pleasure of curling up on a couch with a book, blanket and glass of wine; the pleasure of being alone but not lonely, briefly withdrawn but not closed off; the pleasure of knowing it won’t be long before someone comes looking for you because the food is ready or there’s a news article they meant to ask you about or just because you’ve been missed.
What’s a pleasure the season has returned to you? What’s a joy you know is on the way?
As always, I’ll be reading and responding to your comments in real-time for the next hour.
My husband passed away January 2018 so it will be 4 years soon. At first I isolated myself as much as possible because I could not face the world without him. Just as I was beginning to put a toe back in the water Covid struck. And so I have been alone (but not lonely) for some time now. Our six year old granddaughter and her parents visited 2 weeks ago – it had been 17 months since we’d seen each other -- and I felt the warmth of her smile and her bubbly excitement for life. As I continue to wander through this wilderness that is my grief I am waiting patiently for joy to return as it was so much a part of the life my husband and I shared. I miss the joy our companionship brought each day. Perhaps 2022 will be the year when Winter’s quiet landscape blossoms into Spring’s abundance and joy returns with the flowers.
I love this, and will be meditating on it all day! Living in this chaotic, in-between period where sometimes it feels like people want to flip a switch to "the before," I don't know that's how I feel now, or will ever feel. I am grateful for the quiet womb of winter to think about how and where I want to go from here.
I’ve just recently recovered the ability to concentrate for more than a few moments at a time. Being able to read a book again is such a joy! And to think thoughts bigger than just the task at hand. A huge relief.
When I was little, my parents used to shop in downtown Boston, and for some reason I never fully understood as a kid, my dad would always stop at this little chapel and light candles for his parents. The chapel was on a narrow little street, squeezed in between a bunch of old buildings, and it was always dark and silent, so different from whatever was going on outside. It was creepy and comforting all at the same time.
This past weekend I was back in Boston and found a tiny chapel similar to the one my dad took me to, so I went in, lit a candle for each of my parents, and sat in the silence. I'm very far from the faith I was raised in, but there are lessons that have stayed with me--the power of stillness and silence, for example--and it was only after sitting for a few minutes that I realized I'd chosen candles under Saint Jude, patron saint of lost causes. I don't think I'm a lost cause, but I've felt that before, and this season has its memories for me, too. I don't like to think it makes me sad, but sometimes it does--sometimes if I stop being snide about the holidays I realize how much I want to feel comforted and safe and sure of what's going to happen. I want to feel generous and kind and joyful, and I make that effort, but I realized the other day that in order to to do that, I have to let some uncertainty and anger and sadness in, too. That's what the candles are for, right? And the tiny lights on trees, too. Little bits of reassurance that we're not alone. I think that's what adulthood is finally teaching me. That I can feel uncertain and scared and lonely and sad, and also feel hopeful and generous and full of wonder. It's a delicate balance, but I think I might enjoy the effort.
Oh, the way this hit me in my heart, in wonderful ways. I spent two weeks in Oakland with a friend and her family, celebrating my birthday and Thanksgiving with people I had not seen since early 2019. How lovely it was. The pleasure of a 3 pm chai and pastries in the kitchen, the mania of a 3-year-old running through the house buck naked, the warmth of the California sun on my back in their yard, the luxuriousness of a cocktail just because. And just as you said, "the pleasure of being alone but not lonely". But also, the comfort of returning to my quiet home after a long journey.
I got to visit my parents--and their big, old, ill-behaved dog--for the first time in more than a year this Thanksgiving. Also the first time since I myself became the person for a tiny, young, ill-behaved dog! The joy I got from this family pet I hadn't really understood or loved that much until recently was almost overwhelming. I realized these months of distance and deprivation opened up a lot of space in me to love challenging and imperfect beings, both canine and human.
First off, thank you for this. I love the list of pleasures you shared. Last week, the season returned to me the joy of having dinner with my spouse and my children and realizing that I might be the quietest of the four of us. And I am a fairly loud person. Also, the dorky pride my husband took in the family's consumption of all the Thanksgiving leftovers.
Holidays are chaotic for me. I fight the doom, the old family hurts that feel new, the self-reflection that feels like self-pity, with movement. My therapist calls me "hummingbird." I flit from gathering to gathering, person to person, never staying long but making sure I'm seen. This can lead to some poignant moments--the dinner I ate with a newly-sober dear friend, prepared by the residents of the recovery house. The wildflowers I planted at my sister's land, after eating picnic tamales and clearing brush. These moments don't translate well to workplace chit chat conversation, I've found, but they are valuable and cherished.
This year, as usual, I bought 20 dozen tamales from my coworker and sold and gave away what I could. My nephew was rushing to be with his father's family, and just last month I had commiserated with him about the impossibility of visiting everyone when your parents, and your parents' parents, are divorced. I can't do that math but added with the distances in Texas, it's a losing game. My nephew called to borrow a drill, and I told him after he got it from my house to stop by my workplace. I met him in the parking garage as he and his dad were headed out of town. I was so happy to see my ex-brother in law, give him a hug, hear about his family, and send them both with plenty tamales. I was heart-broken to see my nephew struggling as I did for so many years, not able to fill all the gaps in the weeping family dam, even though we want to and it seems we're expected to, or to hurt ourselves trying. So his hug is bittersweet, but heartfelt and cherished as well.
My husband passed away January 2018 so it will be 4 years soon. At first I isolated myself as much as possible because I could not face the world without him. Just as I was beginning to put a toe back in the water Covid struck. And so I have been alone (but not lonely) for some time now. Our six year old granddaughter and her parents visited 2 weeks ago – it had been 17 months since we’d seen each other -- and I felt the warmth of her smile and her bubbly excitement for life. As I continue to wander through this wilderness that is my grief I am waiting patiently for joy to return as it was so much a part of the life my husband and I shared. I miss the joy our companionship brought each day. Perhaps 2022 will be the year when Winter’s quiet landscape blossoms into Spring’s abundance and joy returns with the flowers.
I love this, and will be meditating on it all day! Living in this chaotic, in-between period where sometimes it feels like people want to flip a switch to "the before," I don't know that's how I feel now, or will ever feel. I am grateful for the quiet womb of winter to think about how and where I want to go from here.
I’ve just recently recovered the ability to concentrate for more than a few moments at a time. Being able to read a book again is such a joy! And to think thoughts bigger than just the task at hand. A huge relief.
When I was little, my parents used to shop in downtown Boston, and for some reason I never fully understood as a kid, my dad would always stop at this little chapel and light candles for his parents. The chapel was on a narrow little street, squeezed in between a bunch of old buildings, and it was always dark and silent, so different from whatever was going on outside. It was creepy and comforting all at the same time.
This past weekend I was back in Boston and found a tiny chapel similar to the one my dad took me to, so I went in, lit a candle for each of my parents, and sat in the silence. I'm very far from the faith I was raised in, but there are lessons that have stayed with me--the power of stillness and silence, for example--and it was only after sitting for a few minutes that I realized I'd chosen candles under Saint Jude, patron saint of lost causes. I don't think I'm a lost cause, but I've felt that before, and this season has its memories for me, too. I don't like to think it makes me sad, but sometimes it does--sometimes if I stop being snide about the holidays I realize how much I want to feel comforted and safe and sure of what's going to happen. I want to feel generous and kind and joyful, and I make that effort, but I realized the other day that in order to to do that, I have to let some uncertainty and anger and sadness in, too. That's what the candles are for, right? And the tiny lights on trees, too. Little bits of reassurance that we're not alone. I think that's what adulthood is finally teaching me. That I can feel uncertain and scared and lonely and sad, and also feel hopeful and generous and full of wonder. It's a delicate balance, but I think I might enjoy the effort.
Oh, the way this hit me in my heart, in wonderful ways. I spent two weeks in Oakland with a friend and her family, celebrating my birthday and Thanksgiving with people I had not seen since early 2019. How lovely it was. The pleasure of a 3 pm chai and pastries in the kitchen, the mania of a 3-year-old running through the house buck naked, the warmth of the California sun on my back in their yard, the luxuriousness of a cocktail just because. And just as you said, "the pleasure of being alone but not lonely". But also, the comfort of returning to my quiet home after a long journey.
I got to visit my parents--and their big, old, ill-behaved dog--for the first time in more than a year this Thanksgiving. Also the first time since I myself became the person for a tiny, young, ill-behaved dog! The joy I got from this family pet I hadn't really understood or loved that much until recently was almost overwhelming. I realized these months of distance and deprivation opened up a lot of space in me to love challenging and imperfect beings, both canine and human.
First off, thank you for this. I love the list of pleasures you shared. Last week, the season returned to me the joy of having dinner with my spouse and my children and realizing that I might be the quietest of the four of us. And I am a fairly loud person. Also, the dorky pride my husband took in the family's consumption of all the Thanksgiving leftovers.
Holidays are chaotic for me. I fight the doom, the old family hurts that feel new, the self-reflection that feels like self-pity, with movement. My therapist calls me "hummingbird." I flit from gathering to gathering, person to person, never staying long but making sure I'm seen. This can lead to some poignant moments--the dinner I ate with a newly-sober dear friend, prepared by the residents of the recovery house. The wildflowers I planted at my sister's land, after eating picnic tamales and clearing brush. These moments don't translate well to workplace chit chat conversation, I've found, but they are valuable and cherished.
This year, as usual, I bought 20 dozen tamales from my coworker and sold and gave away what I could. My nephew was rushing to be with his father's family, and just last month I had commiserated with him about the impossibility of visiting everyone when your parents, and your parents' parents, are divorced. I can't do that math but added with the distances in Texas, it's a losing game. My nephew called to borrow a drill, and I told him after he got it from my house to stop by my workplace. I met him in the parking garage as he and his dad were headed out of town. I was so happy to see my ex-brother in law, give him a hug, hear about his family, and send them both with plenty tamales. I was heart-broken to see my nephew struggling as I did for so many years, not able to fill all the gaps in the weeping family dam, even though we want to and it seems we're expected to, or to hurt ourselves trying. So his hug is bittersweet, but heartfelt and cherished as well.