Sometimes, Gratitude Doesn't Come Easy
Last week I wrote about past Thanksgivings and shared a few memories of happy, and sometimes ridiculous, family moments over the years. Bring a light touch, I told myself as I sat down at the keyboard. Holidays can be stressful.
In response, many of you shared your own funny stories and traditions. I never tire of reading those. Some readers, though, quietly let me know why their holiday would be a hard one, or a quiet one, or a day to get through. Some are lonely. Some wish they could be alone. Many feel they bear too much responsibility for keeping the peace between warring factions. Why is it always up to them to plan gatherings, navigate minefields, mend wounded feelings?
Not one of these readers reprimanded me for my frolicking tone. They just wanted someone to know they were having a hard time.
I’m at that juncture again. Just recently, I wrote about how I used to tell audiences that hate mail and online trolls never bothered me when, in truth, they sometimes ruined my day. Now I’m thinking about some of my own tough holidays, and those memories with the jagged edges. I don’t hide them, but I do try to keep them wrapped up and packed away.
My late brother, Chuckie, used to accuse me of whitewashing our family history as a writer. These were hard conversations. He felt I was erasing his lifelong struggles with our father, and the damage he had inflicted on us kids. I told him I was writing about the good parts because so much else about our father was too hard to hold onto. Both of us were telling true stories, but only one of us had an audience. Four years after his death, I can see why that hurt Chuckie.
I am an admirer of Nikita Gill’s poetry, and often turn to it when I’m trying to find my own words. Yesterday, I picked up her book Wild Embers and it fell open to Your Heart is not a Hospital. Its beginning feels timely:
Your body is not a first aid kit
for broken people
and damaged souls
and hearts that are too tired
to fix themselves.
Your heart is not a hospital
to rejuvenate
and spend all of its life blood
on other people’s problems…
My, that is powerful.
There is a difference between familial love and holiday triage. This is a lesson I’m still learning. I was raised to make people happy, and that’s a hard habit to break. It’s empowering to believe you’re the one who can fix everything. This is an illusion, of course, but it makes me feel in charge, even when I wish I weren’t.
Illusion works both ways. When Sherrod and I started dating, we spent a lot of time discovering what we had in common. By the time we’d met, we were both in middle age and longtime single parents. We’d done a lot of living, and only a fool pretends that prior history won’t try to steer the ship. We had to find our way toward each other before we could face the world together.
Early in our relationship, during one of our long walks, we talked about our divorces. No matter how the end of a marriage comes about, for most people it’s a time of reflection and regret, and feelings of isolation. This was surely true of us.
Sherrod and I both described times when the sight of other families with young children made us feel lonely and bereft. I would watch these scenes unfold in front of me and think every family was happier than mine, every parent a better human than I. Never have I felt more alone.
What nonsense. Just another brand of magical thinking, in which we bestow superpowers on everyone but us. No family is perfect. No love is without its heartbreak. And no life is free of occasionally miserable holidays. Sometimes, those holidays land when we’re already so low to the ground. When this happens, it’s hard to ride into the season on the wings of gratitude.
For years now, on every major holiday I’ve posted a greeting on social media that includes a nod to those who are struggling. “May the day land gently,” I write, and I mean it. But that doesn’t really cover it, does it? We’re not talking about a single day. We’ve got weeks of Mele Kalikimaka and a holly, jolly Christmas in our immediate future.
It’s not for everyone. Maybe this year, it’s not for you. You don’t need me or anyone else telling you to count your blessings, and I hope you don’t have to deal with anyone who insists they need you to be full of cheer. If you do, you might want to tell them your heart isn’t a hospital.
Explanation is optional.
Connie, I've always loved your writing and this is no exception. I am hosting a pop-up sobriety/recovery meeting the morning of Thanksgiving and plan to use this as our opening reading as it so beautifully conveys what is on many of our hearts. Thank you.
After a number of very hard Christmas seasons during the pandemic, I thought perhaps I'd paid my dues and (magically thinking), every holiday going forward would be my own version of delightful. This year, my mother in law is very ill and my wife's family is experiencing the second family trauma in a month. Last night, we made the hard decision to be separate on Thanksgiving so I can see our daughters and their families in S. Carolina and she can stay to support her family. So hard. Our first time apart on Thanksgiving in 28 years. Thanks for writing about this Connie.