I wrote this a few years back and revisited it recently; it was a good reminder to myself on what I want the focus of the Holiday season to really be.
The Holiday season has come and gone again. I sit quietly in my home, and although the fire is burning bright, I am chilled from too little sleep. I always feel so reflective in this time, so nostalgic. The ripping of paper, the ringing of laughter, the smell of peppermint and ginger fill my memory again. I am a child, reveling in Christmas cheer, and yet also I am a grown adult, making memories for my own children. Somehow this is all rolled into one big blur; an abstract painting of time and emotions. There is no picture, yet there are many pictures. Happy and sad, joyful and tearful, the silence of night and the clanging bells of morning are all on my canvas. I stare, taking time to ponder their meanings.
My parents did not grow up in normal, well-functioning homes. When my mother, rather reluctantly, tells us stories of her Christmas past, I always find myself amazed at the carelessness of my Grandparents. It?s hard for me to even write this, to recall that my Grandma was the dearest of Grandmothers, but not an attentive mother. All the cousins, those tiny dear little ones looking to the Heavens for Santa to come, were left to their own devices, alone on Christmas Eve, while their parents enjoyed Christmas parties somewhere else. The adults would arrive home too late to recall, and spend Christmas Day miserable and hung over, yet still filling their cups high, trying to drown out their own memories. When I think of this story past, I am reminded of wise words I jotted down years ago, “But then there are days when we feel like we’re auditioning for a starring role in the book of Ecclesiastes. Did any of it matter at all" Did we accomplish anything even remotely unique, or worthwhile, or useful" … [S]ome days are a drawn veil: we just can’t seem to access the meaning in any of i...