The Holiday Sneak

Christmas is a sneaky holiday. It had to be said. It’s one of those holidays where, even though you know it’s coming … Even though  you’ve known this for an entire, freaking YEAR … Even though you’ve been hearing about it for months on the radio and news and advertisements … It still manages to land in your lap before you realize what’s happening. It still manages to make you scramble and rush around to try and get things ready in time for “the big day”. It’s one of those holidays for which one can never quite feel prepared or truly ready, and so we end up just tossing out our best effort and going with what we have at the moment Christmas happens. Well, I guess most of us do that. Okay … so I do that. Every darn year. Maybe I’m the only one. I hope I’m not the only one but … yeah. I might be. My Domestic Goddess abilities are definitely lacking, both in terms of skill and level of enthusiasm.

I think part of it is that Christmas comes with so many unreasonable expectations. It’s a time of year that is fraught with emotion and longing. We have to keep moving forward in life. Always forward. We have to keep living every day and remembering how every day is precious and a beautiful gift. Except for Christmas. On that day, it’s hard to continue moving forward. We look backward, toward memories of our youth, and think about the things we have lost along the way over the course of a year. Or five. Or ten. Or twenty.


Again, maybe this isn’t something everyone does. Maybe it’s just me. But I find myself approaching each Christmas with a bittersweet longing in my heart. The older I get, the more I think back to the Christmasses of my youth, when my whole family would gather together, and we would all be loud: eating and loving each other and playing rowdy games of dominoes and telling funny stories and laughing. Things felt perfect back then. Of course, they weren’t. Nothing is ever perfect in our lives. This is part of being human. But, I remember how full my heart felt back then. I remember the feeling of love and security that came from having my whole family around me. I remember what it felt like to belong. And I do remember thinking, somewhere deep within my little child-sized heart, how things couldn’t quite be more perfect or more glorious. Even then, as a child, there was a part of me that knew it couldn’t stay this way. Things change. We have to grow up. People leave us, even if we don’t want them to go.

For many years, I have gone to extreme lengths to recreate those childhood memories for myself each year. I’m not sure why. I guess part of it was that I wanted to recapture that warm feeling of completeness and safety. And, perhaps, part of it was that these were the things I knew. These were the things you “did” at Christmas, so it didn’t occur to me to do anything different. Each year, I would exhaust myself trying to get everything “just right”. And, of course, I would always fall short. Memories are sweet and beautiful. You can’t recreate them, not really. You can come close, but something will always be missing. Memories live in our hearts. They can’t come out to live in the real world.

This year, Christmas snuck up on me even more than usual. I love Christmas. I love the holiday spirit and the decorations and the carols and the special movies and the excitement and anticipation. I even love the mad rush to get everything done: tree, cards, decorations, baking, gifts.


Not this year. This year, I couldn’t get past the fact that our family will be celebrating Christmas for the first time without two of our most beloved members. There is nothing like having to unwillingly say good-bye to make you realize nothing can ever, ever be the same. No matter how sweet and perfect your memories might be, they are just that: memories. They will never be real again. Living so far away from the rest of my family, I hardly ever got to see my aunts. I hadn’t been able to see my eldest aunt for at least a couple of years, because she was very ill and frail. I was lucky enough to see my other aunt, very briefly, last summer, during my annual trip home. It’s silly to miss someone you never saw any more. And yet, I do miss them. So much. Just knowing they were out there in the world somehow made my life better and complete. I can’t explain it well, but I feel set adrift by their deaths.

And so, I couldn’t muster any Christmas enthusiasm this year. I was literally at the last minute getting out my cards and my gifts that had to be mailed. I think my husband mailed them on the very last day possible for delivery before Christmas. I didn’t care about our tree. Or any of the decorations. I filled my daughter’s Advent calendar two weeks after December started. I did manage to sit down and paint it. This was my “big” decorating project for this year, and my daughter loves the results. So I suppose that’s something. I waited until the day my parents were to arrive to do any house cleaning, so that I ended up having to do the mad rush around to get the guest room cleared out and ready for them. I was wrapping gifts right up until the night before Christmas Eve. I only baked one pie. It really has been the year of the Grinch in my Christmas heart.


But you know what this year has taught me? Christmas is going to happen, whether I choose to participate or not. Things still got done, even if they didn’t happen when I thought they should. The tree is beautiful. The decorations are up and festive. There were presents. There was a Christmas Day “feast”, cooked by my mom and me. We had a lazy, quiet day at home for Christmas: church on Christmas Eve, sleeping in a bit the next morning, presents gathered around the tree, and then my mom and I laughing and talking all afternoon as we cooked together in my kitchen. And my heart was full.

Maybe the memories of my childhood can only live in my heart. Maybe things feel bittersweet and hard sometimes because we have to keep on living, even if we don’t want to do so. Maybe things won’t ever be quite the same as they used to be. But that’s okay. It’s not what I would have chosen, but it’s beautiful in its own way. We will make new memories. We will laugh and love and make new traditions. And those will live in our hearts, too.


A Thousand Miles

“The journey of a thousand miles begins with one step.”

You know that quote, right? Yeah, of course you do. We all know that quote. We’ve seen it a hundred-thousand-million times in our lives, tacked up on all kinds of posters and placards, almost always backed with some sort of inspirational picture of mossy rocks or the ocean or, maybe, a towering mountain range. I get it. It’s a good quote. Right up there with the hanging kitten poster with the words, “HANG IN THERE!!!” shouting at you from the bottom, in all capital letters and with several exclamation points bringing up the rear — you know, just to drive the point home.

“The journey of a thousand miles begins with one step.”

It is inspirational, isn’t it? I mean, it really makes you stop and think — about life, about where you’ve been, about where you might want to go, about how it might be possible to achieve all those dreams you’ve kept hidden, deep down inside, for far too long. Maybe, it’s even enough to push a person forward, to encourage someone to begin anew or tackle that life-altering “thing” that’s been put off for way too long. It’s heavy stuff, that quote. Good stuff.


I think I hate that saying. It makes everything feel so simple and so easy. You want to go on some huge, life-altering journey? Great! Just take a step and, before you know it, *boom*,  you’re there! But life is seldom that simple. Maybe it is for other people, but not for me.

The thing is … It’s not the second step or the tenth step or the thirty-second step or even the hundred-and-fifty-first that’s hard. The hard part is that first step. There’s a huge leap of faith involved in taking that first step. Because you have to believe there will be a second step or a tenth or a thirty-second … and so on. You have to believe you will, first, find a path and, second, manage to stay on that path. You have to believe life can change. You have to believe you can change. You have to believe in yourself. And that’s hard. Like, bone-shaking, shiver-inducing, panic-stricken HARD. Sometimes, it feels beyond impossible. The doubts and uncertainty are chaotic and painful. They pile up and up and up, until you feel you might choke on them. You might hate these feelings, but they are so familiar that, no matter how obscene it feels, you cling to them.

Stacks of Cars

I’ve been on my own journey of a thousand miles. It has proven to be a meandering jaunt, with unexpected side trips, detours, and set-backs along the way. Each time, taking that first step has been hard. And painful. And, probably, not something I would have chosen to do, had I been left with any other choice. And yet, in each instance, I was left with no other choices. It was move forward or sit down beside the road of my misery and die. It sounds so dramatic when I write it out in black and white. I feel a little bit silly about it, honestly, because I am not a dramatic sort of person. But, dramatic or not, it was the truth.

Is the journey over? No. I don’t think I’ve finished walking my own thousand miles. The older I get and the more life experience I gather, the more I realize I may never reach that coveted mile marker. It’s a good journey. It’s also a bad journey. It’s a journey full of missteps and stupid mistakes. But also packed with laughter and joy and memories. Sometimes, I wonder where I might wind up at the end of it all. And other times, I find the ending point doesn’t really matter much. Because it truly is the journey that counts, as cliche as that sounds. But I do know this: I am glad I found the courage and strength to take the first step.

There’s another saying I love, from another great philosopher of our time. And this one speaks to me much more than Lao Tzu’s words, wise though they may be. This gentleman said, “I’m a thousand miles from nowhere. Time don’t matter to me. ‘Cause I’m a thousand miles from nowhere. And there’s no place I wanna be.”

Oh yeah. Sing it, Dwight Yoakum. Sing it again, just for me. And I’ll hum along as I trudge my thousand miles.