I wrote most of this in
2018. I was surprised at how relevant it still felt when I happened onto it.
Every now and then…well,
most days, I look out the west window of my office at the trees and the fields
and the big round bales of hay that manage to convince me they are deer if I
only see them out of the corner of my eye. And I get philosophical. I’m not
sure if that comes with age or experience or weariness, but there it is. I find
myself with tears on my face and not knowing where they came from or why
they’re there. I laugh out loud here in the silence of this beloved room, yet
am unable to pinpoint what’s so funny.
This
morning, in this quiet place, I’m thinking about Christmas. I’m not “feeling
it” very much so far this year. As long as I’m with family or friends, I can
find it in the laughter and music that is shared there, but the feeling leaves
me too soon. There is still the blessing to be found in believing, the joy in
giving, and the rush of pleasure that comes with lights and wide-eyed children.
And
yet.
There
is so much depression at this time of year, so much loneliness, so much
awareness of what we don’t have. Relationships may have changed or disappeared
through the year. Loss might have become such a part of you that it seems to
have its own heartbeat. You may try to go back to sleep when you wake in the
morning because facing the day is just…well, it’s beyond you. You just can’t.
Yes,
you know how lucky you are and how wonderful life is and that soon you will
feel better. You get the thing with counting your blessings and faking it until
you make it and smiling even though it makes your cheeks wobble and your eyes
water. You get all of that.
But
now it is Christmas and even though you love the lights and the kids and the
excitement and the music, you’re kind of overwhelmed, too. You don’t feel like
you think you should. You might be angry for no identifiable reason. You might
feel compelled to make someone else feel bad because…I don’t know why. Maybe
just because. Your own pain from loss and change you didn’t want may threaten
to take over your life and take you down with it.
This
is when you need to find your west window, even if you don’t know you have one.
But you don’t have to do it alone. If you need help, it is up to you to make
the call. It is when you must remember…you MUST remember…that it’s not just
you. That lots of people are in the same place as you, even ones you think have
perfect lives. The Size Twos. The ones with perennially good hair and always
full wallets and kids who behave in the grocery store and spouses who know what
they’re thinking.
But there’s fear, isn’t
there?—that’s hard to get around. If you’ve been hurt, it could happen again.
You could lose all the emotional gains you’ve dragged up from inside yourself
in just an instant and the next time it will be even worse because you’ve talked
to somebody about it and now they know. They know, but they care. If it happens
again, and real life tells us it very well might, they’ll still care.
It’s dark now, a morning
later, sitting here beside the west window. The office Christmas tree is
covered in white lights but only a few ornaments because I never finished
decorating it. The desktop is the same mess it always is, with memories showing
up sometimes in the piles, stirring the laughter or the tears or both.
There…as the sun comes up
in the opposite window, a deer makes his light-footed way through the field.
It’s not quite light enough to see him, but I’m almost sure…but it’s not. It’s
a round bale, as beautiful in its way as the deer would have been.
I shouldn’t give advice—I
am as unqualified to do so as anyone could possibly be—but advice comes, I am
convinced, not from thinking you know it all but from caring about the person
you’re talking to. But even as I spill out here what I think you should do, I
know that the best thing anyone can do for someone else, much better than
giving advice, is to listen.
And the best thing you can
do for yourself is the giving I mentioned earlier. Whether it’s gifts or time
or just a listening ear or a terrible joke. Take an angel from a giving tree,
hang mittens on another, ring a bell, visit someone who doesn’t normally get
visitors. Instead of scrolling with your phone, call someone and talk on it.
They’ll be glad to hear your voice. If you’re not a phone talker (there are
those of us around), text. Write a letter or send a card. The truth is, if
you’re thinking about someone else, you give yourself a rest.
So, if you’re having a
rough holiday season, whatever the cause, find your own west window and things
that give comfort—even if they’re round bales instead of deer. There is hope
and love and sharing to be found and I hope you find all of it. I hope I do,
too.
Merry Christmas.
.png)