Blue Christmas

 

The holiday season is a time of renewing our faith in people and in matters unseen, scraping together enough hope to get us through the coming year.

But for those who lost loved ones this year, it will be a blue Christmas, a blue Hannukah. 

Even in the best of times, the holidays leave most of us exhausted and wondering if they are worth all the effort. The endless shopping, baking, and gathering with gaggles of family and pods of friends will deposit us on January 2nd feeling fragmented and weary. We will wonder if we feel any happier, wiser, or more grounded, and we’ll think about declining a few of the invitations next year so that we can go through the holidays at a more mindful pace, one that actually nurtures us.

For those who are grieving, the holidays will remind us, over and over, about who is missing. The days will be silent of their laughter and joy that we experienced last year, and the empty chair at the table will remind us that someone we loved is gone. If you lost a spouse, you will feel bitter when you see happy couples. If you lost a child, watching children skipping through the snow will dig a knife in deep. If you lost a parent, you may feel that there is now half a home to return to.

During the holidays, the message we hear in the songs and see in the specials on television is that everyone should be happy, and if we’re not, then something is wrong with us. Yet the heart of the holidays lives beneath the festive paper and tinsel. The holidays should be about slowing down, listening to our hearts, and taking care of those for whom the light has grown dim and sorrow has filled their days. 

We are allowed to step off the holiday ride. 

The grieving aren’t obligated to be happy. We can say “No” to all invitations. Pick what nourishes you this holiday season and ignore the rest. Be selective about the public events you attend. Be with those who allow you to grieve. Maybe you only want to take long walks through the woods, listen to the land, and feel its deep assurance.

If you go to a party, and pressure starts building and you want to bolt, take a break and go outside for a moment. Watch the wonder of the stars until the tension settles. You have taken a risk by choosing to be among happy people, and you can choose to go home at any time. 

If you are the host and invited someone who is grieving, allow them to sit on the side and participate as little as they want. Having a safe place to be among people is a gift in this stressful time.

Sometime during the holidays, you may be in a café by yourself, or at a bar, or in a chair at home looking out the window at the beauty of the snow coming down, when a wave of sadness sweeps over you and you cry. Or a song comes on and reminds you of who isn’t here, and you cry. What this means is that you have loved someone deeply and that they have loved you. As painful as it feels, it would be worse if you shut your emotions down and didn’t let yourself feel anything at all. You are still part of a community that cares for each other. Share with them.

The gift of the holidays is compassion. No special wrapping is required.

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(A longer version of this essay appeared in the Huffington Post.)