Holiday Tidbits

Dec 282022
 

The holidays aren’t what they used to be, at least not for me. Although I have a remarkable collection of friends, I am alone for all or a good portion of nearly every holiday I can think of and a few I can’t. Not like the family gatherings that took place during the season.

I used to be sad about that. No more. It’s not just that I’ve adapted. It’s become apparent that many of us get swept up trying to turn the season into a Hallmark moment, especially when children are involved. Yet there’s so much we can’t control: the cancelled flights, the crushing storm, the various viral diseases. All of these conspire to obliterate even the best laid plans.

I appreciate the effort to spread joy, share happiness, grab a piece of peace, and bask in the glow of lights—so many lights. I love the feel-good stories, the way that people have opened their hearts and homes to others who are stranded. I’d like people to be kind all year round and maybe they are, and we just aren’t hearing enough about that.

I feel fortunate this year, more than I have in some time. It’s about having not just necessities but also friends. Say what you will about social media, it has connected me to an amazing assortment of people who have provided me with a meaningful virtual community. Meanwhile, I have an IRL group. Seven of us got together for a Christmas Day that included a pop-up movie event at my house and coffee and chocolate at a hotel filled to capacity with families. We grabbed seats in a roped-off section of the lobby away from most of the mayhem and had a lovely time. Ho-ho-ho.

So now it’s nearly New Year’s Eve, another invented milestone. The beginning of a new year always marks an opportunity to express our wishes for an improved future, not to mention a chance to “do better.” For those of us in the Northern Hemisphere, it’s hard to make promises in the dead of winter when all we want are the gifts of more light, more heat, more color, less strife.

Still, markers exist for a reason. I’d like 2023 to be the year I design a custom-fit version of gratitude, one that feels less practiced and more present, less  saccharine and more mindful, less self-conscious and more aware.

I’d also like 2023 to be the year I become more tolerant. That will be harder. Because while I wish for peace with all my heart, while I support peacebuildig and conflict resolution organizations, while the idea of “reasonable discourse” sounds good in theory, I have become increasingly impatient with lies, personal attacks, false equivalencies, conspiracy theories, close mindedness, and all-out hatred.

I hate hate. I hate how well it serves the people who would manipulate and the people willing to be manipulated. I hate that intolerance is a cornerstone of entire movements that pretend to be about taking something back when really they’re about keeping someone else down. I hate the corrosive nature of hatred, a violent state of mind in which the end-game is some sort of wholesale elimination or domination.

How does one support peace with a less than hate-free heart? I don’t know. I guess my other goal for the new year  is to create a custom-fit version of tolerance that doesn’t put up with intolerance.

I have my work cut out for me.

My Village

Dec 222021
 

So. December was a month, right? Just as you think maybe you have everything under control, wham! Something (or a series of somethings) comes around to smack you in the face.

The holidays are rarely easy for anyone, never mind the Hallmark-type ads that fill our screens. The stress of gift-buying, the desire to make everything as memorable as possible.

Still, many of us were planning to go all-out after a year and a half in isolation. And many of us still are, notwithstanding a variant of the small spiky enemy that continues to pummel us. I hope everyone remembers to exercise caution.

I got a lot done this month. I published a book and not one but two audio version of earlier books. Big accomplishment. And yet I’ve dragged through the weeks, burdened by lost light and lonely evenings. There’s a lot to miss in December. I was married in the middle of the month but the man I wed is no longer with us. My beloved sister died just after Thanksgiving two years ago. The pandemic makes getting to remaining scattered family challenging.

Oh, and over the past month or two I’ve seen three orthopedic surgeons for intractable pain in my shoulders. The verdict is in: Bone on bone, or what they call “end-stage arthritis.” I’ve had physical therapy, injections, acupuncture, massage, etc. Nothing to do for it but replace it. I still have nearly full use of the shoulders, discomfort notwithstanding. Eventually, I will not. Now gives me the best chance of full recovery. Or does it?

I scheduled surgery for the last week in January. Without the sister who always had my back and with all the attendant anxiety that such a surgery plus the pandemic plus December can bring. Five weeks in a sling, a one-armed woman in a two-story house with a lively elderly dog with stair issues. Sitcom material, right? Or not.

I posted about it on Facebook, a piece of personal information of the sort I am usually reluctant to share. And my friends responded with offers to fly or drive in to cook or drive or watch over me and my dog.

Say what you will about Facebook; it has provided me with a robust and diverse community. Fully half of my 800 friends are writers, which in and of itself is pretty remarkable, and half of those are people I met on one site. Among them I have found people with similar quirks, habits, concerns, outlooks, and issues. Few of them live close by, which is tough. On the other hand, all of them are accessible one way or another.

The kindness reinforces my awareness that it–by which I mean survival in one form or another–takes a village. Easy to forget until you get older or more isolated or somehow disconnected. The young and the strong can perhaps go it alone. The rest of us have no choice but travel around, knock on doors, and ask for what we need. It would seem people are far more generous than we’ve been led to believe. At least that’s what I choose to believe, even on the days I despair for humankind.

Fate is not so accommodating. Covid threatens to blow all the good intentions and careful plans out of the water. This surgery may not take place right now, either by the hospital’s choice or by mine. I’m not about to ask anyone to pass through two major airports for a joint replacement.

But whenever it happens–and it will happen–I feel a little more confident asking for assistance. at some point, that may involve a paid helper. For now, it would seem that with a little effort on my part, I can locate the members of my makeshift village or even forge new friendships in order to both give and receive  give comfort and aid.That’s a worthwhile holiday gift to unwrap any way you look at it.

Heel/Heal

Jan 292020
 

“Heel” is a simple word. A body part, or a part of a shoe. As a verb, the act of repairing a shoe or a command instructing a leashed animal (usually a dog) to follow closely behind its owner.

Then there’s “heal,” which is a more complicated verb. When it comes to physical injury, the definition is “to cause (a wound, an injury, or a person) to become sound or healthy again.” The implication is that the thing or person being treated will be somehow restored. Sample sentence? “He would wait until his knee had healed.”

Then there is the second definition: “to alleviate (distress or anguish)” What it suggests is a lessening, an accommodation of sorts but not a restoration. Sample sentence? “Time can heal the pain of grief.”

Which is to say, the griever becomes far better at coping, more adept at getting through a day, open to the idea of living, laughing, loving. Never wholly repaired. Ever. Like an aging body, it will always hurt.

I’m surprised more people don’t seem to understand this about grief. Hasn’t loss touched a great number of us? Any episode of “This is Us” or the myriad doctor shows revisit the subject time after time. True, the passing of the elderly may cause less pain, though that is also fungible. Lives cut short are always a shock to the system.

Yet most people are supremely awkward around grievers. Some feel compelled to share their grief stories. Others want to flee. I get it. Listening, just listening, is hard. Being around people in pain is a colossal downer.

Writers are natural grievers. In the effort to tell stories that resonate, we must tap into universal experiences that include joy and hope but also pain and loss. We are required to feel what our narrators feel. Further, we are by nature somewhat solitary. Isolated at times by our own unruly emotions, we must rely on whatever words we have at our disposal, so that we may reach out, connect and find the truth in our own one-of-a-kind process. Such efforts may benefit others. It definitely benefits us.

As does IRL (in real life) contact. Americans may be bad with words but they are terrific huggers. Hugging isn’t for everybody and hugging everybody isn’t for me. I’m squirmy in the embrace of strangers. My family wasn’t overtly physical, although they were never at a loss for words. I’ve been a widow for eighteen years. My sister didn’t hug until the very end of her life. Being folded into an embrace is still a novelty for me.

I don’t mind it, though. It feels as if I’m connecting to something. To another being. To life.

Speaking of connecting, I know far more people now than I did when my husband was killed. Although many of these people remain virtual, others do not. They’ve stepped up. Not only are they reaching out to me, some are determined to get me out of the house. I have (what is for me) a crowded social calendar. It’s exhausting but it’s not a bad thing. I try to accept as many of these connections as possible. I’ve even done my own outreach, making dates and planning to fly off to see distant friends. That’s some sort of record.

Still, I try not to get ahead of myself. Grief drains me. I am often tired. I do practice what my friends call self-care. Less wine, less sugar, more protein, lots of exercise and the aforementioned social engagements. I am lucky to be able to do so and I don’t take that advantage for granted. I’m even grateful to keep busy with the paperwork that arises when one is solely responsible for packing up another’s life.

I’m not a patient person and age has only aggravated my impatience. I want to get on with things. Grief has other ideas about the how and the when, confounding the best laid plans.

I don’t entirely control my broken heart’s repair. For the foreseeable future, grief is the master. Where it leads, I follow. I heel, so that I can heal.

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