I’ve been throwing stuff into the…what do I call that room? The study? The guest suite? Lisa’s room? Whatever. To keep my house reasonably uncluttered while accumulating gifts, wrapping them, and other such holiday nonsense, everything gets thrown in there and the door closed to keep out snooping dogs. This doesn’t please Margot, because the crates are in that room, and she loves her crate.
Over the past couple of weeks, Tom brought in what boxes remained of my mother’s Christmas decorations. There weren’t many, but I wanted to split them for the grandkids. (My brother, sister, and I divided the first round of decorations many years ago when my mother got sick of moving them.) I won’t lie; this was hard. When we packed up all her other belongings and gave away, donated, or sold them, she was still alive. Since then, there was a time when I went through the rest of her clothes and donated them. But that was months ago.
You really can’t dodge grief, and you also can’t anticipate when it will become sharper. Thanksgiving was fine, even though I could clearly remember Mother going to Green Acres with us last year (when I took all those BBQ Frito Thanksgiving photos). But it was Christmas Eve when Tom and I had to take her to the hospital, the visit that led to her cancer diagnosis. Though I’m not consciously thinking of anything that’s upsetting me, I know my ongoing insomnia is related to mourning. And when I burst into tears driving down the road because “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” starts playing–well, it’s not because I’m tired of Christmas music. Except for when I’ve worked retail, I like Christmas music.
Sometimes I believe we were smarter about mourning in the old days (no matter what Scarlett O’Hara thought). We were allowed to withdraw. Less was expected of us. We gave ourselves time to be alone, to think, to remember, to grieve. Nobody has patience in today’s world for the contemplative spirit. We have to move fast, drive fast, work fast, recover fast. There’s noise around us all the time.
That’s the life I consciously and gradually stepped back from over the past ten years, and in this busiest of seasons, I keep reminding myself of that. I don’t mind being sad. I don’t mind crying. I prefer to do it in solitude, and I’m not talking about it here because I want sympathy. I’m talking about it because I know friends who are also coping with losses who may need a gentle reminder that it’s okay to cry. It’s okay to miss him or her. It’s okay to feel a little lost sometimes. I’ll never forget the wisdom someone gave to me after my father died: The depth of your sorrow is equal to the depth of your love.
Instead of pretending everything’s fine, I decided to get control of that room. I bought a small tree and decorated it with some of my mother’s decorations, many of which were gifts from me. I organized everything that still needs wrapping so I can work in there tomorrow, in a clear space, with a decorated tree and its twinkling lights, and two dogs who are thrilled to get their cozy crates back. And we will have ourselves a merry little Christmas now.
