I know I am hardly the first to feel this, but Christmas is an intensely bittersweet holiday for me. For some unknown reason, it always has been, even as a child. I am actually a sucker for holiday movies, specials, and music. Not to mention eggnog, Christmas treats, gift exchanges, and my mother's cherry delight. I'm one of the people who insist that Lethal Weapon and Die Hard are Christmas movies, if for no other reason than to have a few more kickass movies to associate with the Christmas season. And I love it when a more recent film is able to captivate and become a modern classic, such as Elf or Dr. Seuss's How the Grinch Stole Christmas.
But ever since I was a child, there has always been something wistful about this holiday as well. And again, I know I'm not the only one. You can hear it in much of the Christmas music, a heaviness. And ever the philosopher, I cannot help but wonder, Why is that?
In my own life, I think it has something to do with my sense of loneliness as a child. My parents separated when I was a baby, and both quickly moved on to other spouses, with my dad becoming a father again before my third birthday. My childhood at my father's was not a particularly happy one. And at my mother's, it was not a stable one, as we bounced from place to place, and from husband to boyfriend and boyfriend to husband, several times before I reached the age of five. Some of my earliest Christmas memories are of a sense of regret that I had never really experienced a Christmas with a family proper. I've always felt like a person on the outside, like I've never really "fit in" anywhere.
But I'm not the only one, and I know this. Why? Maybe it's because the Christmas holiday is a clear sign that the year is ending. Perhaps this sense of imminent conclusion hearkens to a sense of finality that hits a little too close to home and reminds us of our own mortality? Maybe it's because, for this one day of the year, we gather together in large groups for celebration and cheer; and as soon as the celebration is over, we return to our largely isolated and atomized lives, preparing ourselves for the year to come. When I was a child, Christmas was the one holiday that the family came to our house. Thanksgiving was spent at my Aunt Fern's. New Year's Day and Easter were spent at my Uncle Mike's. Christmas was the holiday the family spent at my house. Everyone would come over, gifts were exchanged, Mom's cherry delight was devoured, laughs were shared, countless f-bombs were dropped. Then, everyone went home, and I was alone again, surrounded by the debris of our avarice and gluttony. Maybe the melancholy has something to do with the sense of fleetingness pertaining to this joy, a momentary flash of communion before our return to relative solitude.
There were all the standard holiday sadnesses, of course. The first Christmas after my mom and stepdad, (who had been something like a father to me), divorced. The first Christmas after my grandpa died, when my grandma stood at the sink crying and unable to move. The Christmas when my Uncle Mark couldn't join us because he had been drinking all day and was too drunk to drive, so he stayed in his trailer in the middle of nowhere by himself. There was the years-long decline of my mom's mental health, as she slipped further and further into alcoholism and depression. I don't remember exactly when it was, but at some point, Christmas dinner at Mom's was poorly attended, mostly by the other family drunks.
Now, as an adult who is statistically past the middle of his life, this holiday is bookended by the anniversaries of the deaths of my parents, with my mother's falling on December 10, and my father's on January 21. Christmas celebrations are now haunted by their absences. Christmas Eve, for instance, was the day that we always did presents at my dad's... it was sort of like our Christmas day. When my father was still alive, I would always text him on this day with a "Happy Christmas Eve" message. I'm not sure he ever understood the significance of it for me.
And yet, none of this completely encapsulates the sadness of the holiday for me. I suspect that it is all of these things and none of them, for all of us who celebrate this day. That there is something about the intensity of the celebratory spirit and the fervor that also cannot but remind us of who and what we've lost, the relationships broken by time, by anger and pain, or by death. The impending conclusion of the year, the cold and darkness of the season, the subtle evanescence of twinkling colored lights, barely illuminating the darkness of our living rooms. Even in the midst of the roaring fires, the cheerful carols, the time with loved ones, religious observances, delicious meals, nostalgic films, and so on, there remain these cinders.
I do not mean to be morose. Not at all. I send this reflection into the world, primarily because once more it is Christmas Eve, once more I am about to share laughs with my wife and my children, whom I love more than my own life, and yet, once more, I sit here on the bed, listening to Elvis's "Blue Christmas," and crying quietly to myself. And I suspect strongly that I'm not the only one. Christmas hugs to all of you.
But ever since I was a child, there has always been something wistful about this holiday as well. And again, I know I'm not the only one. You can hear it in much of the Christmas music, a heaviness. And ever the philosopher, I cannot help but wonder, Why is that?
In my own life, I think it has something to do with my sense of loneliness as a child. My parents separated when I was a baby, and both quickly moved on to other spouses, with my dad becoming a father again before my third birthday. My childhood at my father's was not a particularly happy one. And at my mother's, it was not a stable one, as we bounced from place to place, and from husband to boyfriend and boyfriend to husband, several times before I reached the age of five. Some of my earliest Christmas memories are of a sense of regret that I had never really experienced a Christmas with a family proper. I've always felt like a person on the outside, like I've never really "fit in" anywhere.
But I'm not the only one, and I know this. Why? Maybe it's because the Christmas holiday is a clear sign that the year is ending. Perhaps this sense of imminent conclusion hearkens to a sense of finality that hits a little too close to home and reminds us of our own mortality? Maybe it's because, for this one day of the year, we gather together in large groups for celebration and cheer; and as soon as the celebration is over, we return to our largely isolated and atomized lives, preparing ourselves for the year to come. When I was a child, Christmas was the one holiday that the family came to our house. Thanksgiving was spent at my Aunt Fern's. New Year's Day and Easter were spent at my Uncle Mike's. Christmas was the holiday the family spent at my house. Everyone would come over, gifts were exchanged, Mom's cherry delight was devoured, laughs were shared, countless f-bombs were dropped. Then, everyone went home, and I was alone again, surrounded by the debris of our avarice and gluttony. Maybe the melancholy has something to do with the sense of fleetingness pertaining to this joy, a momentary flash of communion before our return to relative solitude.
There were all the standard holiday sadnesses, of course. The first Christmas after my mom and stepdad, (who had been something like a father to me), divorced. The first Christmas after my grandpa died, when my grandma stood at the sink crying and unable to move. The Christmas when my Uncle Mark couldn't join us because he had been drinking all day and was too drunk to drive, so he stayed in his trailer in the middle of nowhere by himself. There was the years-long decline of my mom's mental health, as she slipped further and further into alcoholism and depression. I don't remember exactly when it was, but at some point, Christmas dinner at Mom's was poorly attended, mostly by the other family drunks.
Now, as an adult who is statistically past the middle of his life, this holiday is bookended by the anniversaries of the deaths of my parents, with my mother's falling on December 10, and my father's on January 21. Christmas celebrations are now haunted by their absences. Christmas Eve, for instance, was the day that we always did presents at my dad's... it was sort of like our Christmas day. When my father was still alive, I would always text him on this day with a "Happy Christmas Eve" message. I'm not sure he ever understood the significance of it for me.
And yet, none of this completely encapsulates the sadness of the holiday for me. I suspect that it is all of these things and none of them, for all of us who celebrate this day. That there is something about the intensity of the celebratory spirit and the fervor that also cannot but remind us of who and what we've lost, the relationships broken by time, by anger and pain, or by death. The impending conclusion of the year, the cold and darkness of the season, the subtle evanescence of twinkling colored lights, barely illuminating the darkness of our living rooms. Even in the midst of the roaring fires, the cheerful carols, the time with loved ones, religious observances, delicious meals, nostalgic films, and so on, there remain these cinders.
I do not mean to be morose. Not at all. I send this reflection into the world, primarily because once more it is Christmas Eve, once more I am about to share laughs with my wife and my children, whom I love more than my own life, and yet, once more, I sit here on the bed, listening to Elvis's "Blue Christmas," and crying quietly to myself. And I suspect strongly that I'm not the only one. Christmas hugs to all of you.
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