The thing about this season is it can feel like we are all Flat Stanleys. If we just put ourselves in a place by creating the right scene-- put a bow here, add  a tree there, play the right music, we arrive! Welcome to Destination Holiday!

These things can be fun. They can help boost a mood. They can create a feeling of warmth and coziness. 

And yet, it’s never the entire story.

There is so much pain in the world. We are anything and everything but flat. There is only so much a bow cannot fix.

Grief is sneaky. The lights on the tree blink while my Ben tells me about a new book series he’s jazzed about and suddenly, a vision of worn paperback westerns sitting in stacks at your birthplace floats up and tears sit on the surface of my eyes. He stopped mid sentence. “Mom?”

I take a deep breath and ask him to go on. I want this moment with him. I will find a space later to let this out.

Grief needs to breathe. It will find a way for you to make space for it, especially if you choose not to. But there are moments when it catches me that feel inconvenient and surprising. Where did that come from? is a question I find myself asking a lot.

 

Everyone is feeling so much right now because there is SO much happening. Maybe some of us (me) misplace what matters and shop and eat and make merry because I don’t want to feel the other stuff.  Or, more likely, it is both. It is fun AND painful AND a distraction AND spreading cheer can force me into my own cheer.

I made enough holiday granola to feed a small army. I can make something while crying. I can stir and chop and check the timer and feel my sadness doing something I want to do for someone else and hope it gives them a bit of joy.

I give it to workmates and friends and to Bob’s nurses and workmates and people who help him get through his day. This is the part that matters to me, saying thank you to those who help me get through the day. I often think of my students who are always so happy when we provide snacks (which is always). It is not lost on me how little it takes to lift a person. 

But this collective grief? I cannot feed the entire world.

I think where I am is making space for the pain and letting others know they can  do the same.

We are not Flat Stanleys. Our emotional well being is complex,  shades of not just gray but all colors. It’s hard to convey in one little holiday newsletter. 

I went simple this year after taking the year off last year. I have no family photos or newsy letter. Instead, I chose a few scenes I captured on one of many drives I have taken in Southeast Minnesota.  Each shows a little moment that brought me joy…enough to want to share it.

I think this is why we are here. In order to bear the more complex, painful, and unseen parts, we can share our joy. In doing so, it is my hope I can inch others closer to doing the same. Our unique pain and trauma may never be erased, but neither can the light and joy we see. In that way, I think it is what I can offer, a bit of light. May each of you find a way to offer yours as well.