The road from Christmas Past

When I started this blog, I needed time in my life to reflect on lessons I was encountering in my midlife. These unsettled feelings posed questions for which I had no answers. My personal journey prompted an unpacking of my emotional baggage to understand the heaviness I felt and brought with me everywhere I went. Since then, I’ve cleared out my closets, shared family pictures, and passed on heirlooms with the stories behind them. As for the pages of the person I was and who I had become, they were moved from my bookshelves to those readers in my circles. Letting go of these things was difficult, but I found it easier than letting go of my long-held expectations of myself and others. While my mind was free, it was not until this past Christmas that my heart became lighter after learning a painful lesson of love.

I am the oldest sibling and I considered myself to be my family’s “kinkeeper”, the family member who (often unconsciously) takes on the role of keeping the family connected to our traditions and to each other. I felt a sense of responsibility to share the memories and traditions of my past with my children as they grew, as well as create new, meaningful traditions. Birthdays and holidays and family trips were documented through pictures and mementoes and these were often revisited with fondness. Hosting our family Christmas was a time where our blended family came together, weaving our traditions of Santa and stockings and multiple households into a cherished memory for years to come. However, this Christmas holiday would be different. After much thought about what it might mean to us and to our feeling of family, my husband and I concluded that we were no longer able to host this event. It weighed heavily in our hearts, knowing that to me it meant letting go of the cycle of tradition that came with this time of year.

The reality of being an empty nester is that family grows up and leaves home. As kinkeeper, I felt the pressure to carry on our traditions in spite of these changes. Wanting everyone to remain connected, my expectations intensified – and with it, my frustration. It’s the frustration you feel when someone doesn’t show up in the way you want, and it affects the mood of the group. Nevertheless, as children grow and become adults and maybe have children of their own, the family dynamic changes. I saw less of my kids, and felt more distant. I experienced a sense of loss, like no longer being able to see who they had become without me. But, if I could just hold on to Christmas, I would be ok.

In the end, I had to let go of the cycle of expectation that came with Christmas. I had to be ok with my family creating their own traditions, some of which I was no longer a part. The family Christmas celebrations that were to come would not look the same, but it was time for me to be content, knowing that our family would carry on in ways meaningful to them. Could I continue to create new memories and new traditions with my loved ones? Of course! But on my journey to mindfulness, my suitcases are now lighter. I’m leaving behind the worry that I’ve not made a difference in their lives and am looking to the road ahead. I’m also excited for next Christmas, whatever it looks like, where each moment will be a present for the holidays to come.

One lone Santa…

This year, I took down the holiday decorations right after Christmas. This is unusual for me, as I revel in the coziness that is created by the festive trees and bows and glitter – even though all the presents have been opened and the cannisters of holiday treats are still out for all to enjoy. Fueled by my trente-sized coffee, I tackled this work, driven by an unseen force to clean the space, sweep the holiday aside, and move on to the new year. In a combination of zeal and precision and sadness, I was mentally saying goodbye to what was and preparing for the year to come.

There is a sadness to stripping my tall Christmas tree of all the beaded branches, bedazzled birds and shiny balls with their misshapen hooks. I normally go through a process of removing branches first, then fragile glass and crystal pieces, etc. until I have only the basic ornaments and ribbon left. The remaining ribbon, drooping and scattered around the base, having been pried off the top and pulled towards the bottom, rests in a mess I can wrangle as I attempt to roll it in a manageable spiral. As I tread in circles around the tree, I feel like the frustrated person banging their head against the wall….round and round I go – where I stop, no one knows. It mirrors my mood of the deflating balloon, and when the tree is completely empty, it is as lifeless as I feel.

This empty tree parallels my mood. Not more than a month or so ago, I fluffed and hung every bit of sparkle and ornamental memory of days gone by to display for all to see. The tiny lights added a glow to every moment, making me feel optimistic about my life and humbly grateful that year for what seemed like life worth living. In the glow of my evening tree, I would often whisper to the universe my grateful Thank Yous. Joy was truly in these moments. But now, the halls are no longer decked, and my twinkling reminders to be grateful are gone.

The emptiness between the bustle of Christmas and the ringing in of the New Year is often a time I feel lonely. Who gathers and where during this time can define one’s core family and home base. And those who turn to social media to connect with friends across the miles, this forum can often distort the nature of true friendship, teaching us that because someone sees the details of our life automatically creates a bond with them. It does not. What I have learned, in my midlife, is that friendship requires people reaching out to the other, across the divide, to be a part of each other’s lives, not just be a witness to it. During the holidays, when I make extra effort to strengthen my ties to those I hold dear, I lean too far to reach across this divide. And when I fall, I don’t feel brave, but defeated.

It was in this moment that my bare tree found me, only to share a message I needed to hear. In my melancholy self-reflection, I had found a lone Santa ornament, tucked away among the center branches. Hiding in plain sight, it had blended in with the brown and green twigs that had lost their shiny adornments. Unknowingly, I had regarded my work as done, my tree was bare, and my holiday over. What I found is that it was not necessary to shine a light on the spirit of the season. Finding him only reminded me that even when we cannot see what may be right in front of us, we are never truly alone.

The ghost in the machine

The holiday season always evokes that feeling of sparkle and adventure in me. While my household no longer holds the children who come and go, I look forward to the time when I can host my friends and families in my home or within the festiveness of the city. Being an empty nester has allowed me to grow as an explorer, becoming brave enough to leave my cozy home base during the darker season to engage the world around me with those whom I hold dear. Mindfulness for me during this season of sentimentality is about really seeing the people I’m with, relishing the moment, and helping to create that joy in all we are during this time.

So it was my holiday endeavor to share with my children my memories of days gone past in a way that conveyed the stories they were too young to remember. Photographs presented still life moments of special times, but on video I captured first words, first steps, and first missing teeth. Holidays and birthdays were recorded in documentarian style, knowing even back then that these days would become self-evident in the journey my children were taking. Giddy in my excitement of receiving the final product of this Christmas endeavor, I also expected a trip down memory lane with the extra features of this conversion. Among the multitude of recordings I had provided were mystery cartons and boxes I had never viewed. It was unclear how far back this digital journey would take me.

My goal was to share our family story with the next generations. Would these cannisters of celluloid give my family a sense of history like old Polaroids never could? I clicked on the first icon, seeing a 1951 parade and then the Rose Bowl football game. Numerous captured moments of Central California history, of which John Steinbeck might even be proud. Grainy, silent moments in the time of my family’s past filled my screen. As I watched, I saw the entrance of a young California rancher and his wife, who was dressed in a starched blouse and full skirt. As the camera set on a tall, slim, dark haired beauty of a girl, maybe 14 years old, I stopped because I was looking at a reflection of myself. My mother had appeared in frame, in a setting that took me back to my childhood. The setting of my favorite Christmas memories. This was my mother, smiling, walking, and laughing in her childhood home.

Because my daughters would grow up not seeing my side of the family very often, I wove the fondest of my childhood memories into their daily course of living. Tales of the ranch, the sprawling patio on which my sister and I rollerskated, along the midcentury splendour of Christmas in California with Grammy and Granddad likely fell short on the ears of little girls. But now, there was video to back every story I’d told them.

This shift in my personal timeline stopped me in my tracks. It was like seeing myself, but not myself, filmed in a family story I knew little about. It was like seeing a ghost – the ghost in this machine was forcing me to rewrite everything I knew about my early life. How could there be so much I did not know about my mother and who would eventually become my father?

Seeing my young mother with her grandparents and cousins and little brother camping among the 1950s Sequoias expanded my family story in a way nothing else could. Like bellows on a fire, this richness of my ancestry had blown life into my identity in a way only personal history could. Like that grandfather telling that same story over and over at the dinner table, I now had added depth of who I was and from whence I came to the mother…to the person I’d become for my children. The life I had crafted from the experiences as I remembered them became more layered, more vibrant with each roll of film I viewed. Mindful of my past but remembering to live in my moments, I realized that these digital ghosts did not haunt my present, but made it richer. I now approach the new year with a confidence that is grounded, like the roots of those Sequoias, in the foundation of our generations reaching for the skies as I grow.

Cracks in the ceiling

During this time of COVID-19 and the importance of limiting exposure to the outside world, I believe we have all spent a little more time focused on home. More of my friends and family put up holiday decorations earlier than normal. Wanting that feeling of coziness and safety among dear ones was key to supporting one’s emotional health. I was sent plenty of images showing Hallmark movie holiday décor and families in festive attire. Social media blurred its lens to display pictures that others in our community wanted us to see – that they were making it. They were surviving. That they were ok and looking ahead to healthier and happier times. But this season, not all families wore matching Christmas pajamas.

In many families, like mine, there is discord at home. Fractures in our faith in what is right and what is wrong have made me uncomfortable with those who tell me my mask makes me someone who doesn’t value freedom. I am afraid of the growing violence and hate disguised as support for our leadership. And most of all, I am concerned that friendships are being torn apart. At a time when my world is small, and restricted, my relationships with family and friends are what I have left to connect me with the outside. While my midlife self is decluttering my home of memories and emotional baggage from the past in order to live in the present, it means that I am more closely examining the four walls of my world. And right now, my world is my home. My door keeps sickness out and lets family in. My friendships help me sort out what to keep and what to throw away. However, in these desperate times, I am not feeling as safe in my community. The overly attentive mother is examining her midlife with scrutinizing detail, and what she is finding is not pretty.

The complexity and challenge of remaining healthy and compassionate when the world around you is crumbling can be overwhelming. The discourse of the day about vaccines, masks, and even safe holidays at home put me at odds with what normally makes me healthy and happy this holiday season. While I should have been decking the halls and making merry, I was fortifying my structure and engaging in debate that weakened my faith in my community. This new year, I have found cracks in my ceiling. I just hope that my roof, and the roof over us all, doesn’t come tumbling down.