Season of Joy

(written Christmas afternoon:)

I am not a religious person, and I chose to have a quiet Christmas this year. It ended up being a little quieter than I expected, because it turns out that practically everyone I know in this small town goes somewhere else for the holidays. So my vision of hanging with friends turned out to be spending a small amount of time with one friend (so as not to wear out my welcome) and a good deal of time alone.

My mother passed away the year before last and she was always the center of our family Christmas, the place we all gathered, and she made it very festive even though her religious observance consisted of watching midnight mass from St. Peter's. I wanted to find a way to celebrate Christmas on my own terms, knowing that those days are gone for good.

It seems like the right time of year to reflect anyway; to hold faith in the return of light, symbolized by lights and Christmas trees and mistletoe and everything that stays alive. Death is not all. Loss is not all. So I try to attune myself to the season, love the low light in the afternoons, the bare shapes of trees. I have tried this Christmas to be especially mind-ful of these gifts, and grateful; to content myself with small things. And to reproduce in a small way the things I loved so much about past holidays. So on Christmas Eve I baked biscotti (to give to the one friend), placed and lit luminarias on my front porch, called my family--and at midnight turned on midnight mass from St. Peter's.

It was a little lonely and sad, but it was also enough, though just barely. I am able to feel blessed, so I figure I've done well. Later I am going over to feed the chickens for someone who's out of town. It's cold, but the light sure is nice.