When the lights go out
I’ve always had a strange relationship with the Christmas season. From the outside, I seem to be bursting with joy. In public, you’ll rarely see me without a Santa hat or an ugly sweater. There’s almost certainly a candy cane on my person. I’m probably wearing a pair of those Christmas socks that sacrifice any sense of warmth to focus on a design of dogs in sweaters or repeating Rudolphs. I will happily tell anyone that asks that I’d like to be Clark W. Griswold, the center of a swirling tornado of holiday chaos.
The truth of how I actually feel, however, is messier than the Griswold house at the end of Christmas Vacation. December makes me extremely sad and I can’t stop myself from leaning into it. My speakers play songs like The Pogues’ Fairytale of New York and Old City Bar by TSO on repeat. Songs that tell stories of nostalgia, regret, and loneliness. I smile at the idea of staying up late on Christmas Eve watching Emmet Otter’s Jug-Band Christmas with a glass of whiskey but I’ll cry while it’s happening.
I consider myself a strange version of religiously spiritual. I disagree with so many concepts and beliefs of the catholic church I was raised in, but I find comfort in the stories of a manger on a silent night. Of three old men bringing wildly impractical gifts to a baby.
Thoughts of the sound of creaky old pews and church bells and the smells of incense at midnight on Christmas Eve are still so visceral I can feel them. But when the bells ring out on Christmas Day, I know I’ll spend hours fighting back tears. Perhaps it’s the sense of ending. Maybe it’s knowing that in January my birthday will come around, a day I’ve never really cared about anyway, and I’ll just be another year older.
I’ve always tried to be in the moment and embrace joy when I’m experiencing it, but it’s a struggle. At my core, I’m a person who worries about time lost and time gone by. I’m nostalgic to the point of unhealthiness and so, every year, even as John Denver and the Muppets play through my speakers and the Grinch tiptoes across my television, I know that far too soon, the tree will be taken down. The stale cookies will be thrown away. The holiday spirit will dissipate.
What do you do when the lights stop twinkling?
Growing up, the Christmas season was always a joy. We would go sledding and bake cookies. We’d decorate the Christmas tree that never quite fit in its stand. We’d read those scratch and sniff Christmas books where the cheese just kind of smelled like the paper it was printed on.
Christmas Eve was the culmination of the season. Dozens of family and friends would come to our home for a traditional Eastern European meal filled with pierogi, garlic sausage, ham, and pea soup. Drinks would be had and cousins would exchange gifts. Grandpa would hand them out one by one from his chair in the corner of the dining room. It took a long time. I have a lot of cousins.
It was loud.
I loved it.
As an adult with my own home and responsibilities, I know that every year I’ll have to leave that party far earlier than I’d like. I start thinking about how sad that will make me even before the shrimp cocktail comes out.
In a normal year, this party would still be happening at my mom’s. 2020 is not a normal year.
I’ve heard a lot of interviews and read a number of essays by smart people I respect who say being nostalgic is an unhealthy act. I suppose this is true, given the human brain’s penchant to look back with rose-colored glasses. Mine tend to be more red and green.
I don’t know that anything can be gained from longing for a perfect holiday season that probably never truly existed. Reflection is natural as the year comes to an end, but I admit I’m jealous of the people who can enjoy these few weeks for what they are. An annual excuse to bake a little more, raise a glass with friends and family, and embrace the sounds of jingle bells.
I wish I knew how to just stay in the moment and let the holiday spirit envelop me. But when I look up at my Christmas tree, I don’t know how to think about everything it means for today. I think about how I’ll feel when I put it back into storage. I think about how I’m going to have to fight to be okay after the garland is unplugged and the snowmen are put away.
I never figured out how to smile the last time the lights go out.
