I bought a Nativity set (at Sears, of all places!) our first Christmas in Puerto Rico (1985), which means it's 38 years old now. When they were younger, our tradition was for each child to take turns putting the characters in a place of their own choosing. The only rule was that the Baby Jesus could not be in the hayloft (since Mary and Joseph didn't fit up there as well). Somehow it always managed to go smoothly and cooperatively.
When we sold our house and downsized to the condo five years ago, we had all the kids (now grown) over and did a schoolyard pick of the ornaments and various decorations. Rob chose the Nativity and, since he and E lived together for four years, they continued the ritual. This year will actually *not* be our First Christmas Without Eric; last year was, since E went with Duyen and her parents to a cabin in North Carolina for the holidays. Before he left town, he texted the above photo to Rob... 💞
P.S. Speaking of Rob... Happy Birthday to my Middle Child! We gathered together for a Family Birthday Dinner this evening, and invited his friend Leslie (who is a darling).
Happy Fish Sushi: Delicious food, beautiful ambience, stunning presentation; we'll be back.. 🍣
If you haven’t sent cards this year, or forgotten someone’s gift.
If you don’t have matching pyjamas or a festive family photograph.
It’s okay.
If you can’t find the energy to be merry and bright,
or your tree isn’t even decorated yet.
That’s really just fine.
If you don’t feel like watching your favourite Christmas movies, or honouring the traditions that you normally always do.
Don’t sweat it, my friend.
This year has been hard, for many.
Really hard.
If you can’t see a way to celebrating like you have in the past, don’t worry.
Just hang on in there, finding any joy you can in any little way.
Just make it through till next year.
One day at a time.
We need you.
Hang on in there.
You are loved.
~ Donna Ashworth
Referencing the poem below... in our case, today is 12 weeks (and a week from today makes *three* months) since Eric died:
for MS
She gave me an hour.
Since then, every minute
has grown from the soil
of that time.
She gave me silence.
It was the wisest teaching.
She did not know me.
She deeply understood my heart.
There was a time
when she, too,
was met with unthinkable loss.
Now she knows
to say the name
of the one who is gone.
She knows not to fix.
She knows the gift
of being seen.
She asked for nothing
in return.
Over a year later,
I remember how she listened
with her eyes.
I remember the generosity
of her gaze.
She lit a candle for my child,
a golden light
on a bed of amethyst.
With that flame,
she has lit hundreds more
through my hand.
Sometimes I wonder
where her flame began,
I think of all the hands
lighting all the candles.
How beautiful that light.
How far we have come
from the dark we have known.
by john roedel
the wounds in our hearts
seem to ache a little deeper
during the holidays
don't feel like you
need to cover your wounded
heart in wrapping paper
this Christmas
you don't have to
tie the corners
of your lips with
garland to force
a smile
you don't have to
keep whistling
"silent night" to keep
people from noticing
your bottom lip is trembling
you don't have to blame
an allergy to nutmeg
for why you are walking
around with tears in your
eyes
for this Christmas
give yourself
permission
to feel whatever you
need to
last night
I was visited
by the ghost
of yuletide Heartbreak
she told me this:
it's okay to not be okay
on Christmas
it's okay to be melancholy
under the mistletoe
it's okay to come apart
while they are caroling
it's okay to trace your scars with your fingers
while others are humming ‘Holy Night’
it's okay to miss the presence of your beloved
amid the sound of opening presents
it's okay, my love,
to hurt during the holidays
don't stuff your stockings
with your suffering
don't hide your healing
during the holidays
give yourself the gift
of being authentic to yourself
it's okay to not be okay
during Christmas
it's okay to let the broken
pieces inside of you
be the only jingle bells you
hear
because, my love, because,
it means you are still fighting
to stay alive
and I can't think of anything
more to celebrate than that
Talking to Grief by Denise Levertov
Ah, grief, I should not treat you
like a homeless dog
who comes to the back door
for a crust, for a meatless bone.
I should trust you.
I should coax you
into the house and give you
your own corner,
a worn mat to lie on,
your own water dish.
You think I don't know you've been living
under my porch.
You long for your real place to be readied
before winter comes. You need
your name,
your collar and tag. You need
the right to warn off intruders,
to consider my house your own
and me your person
and yourself
my own dog.
Christmas To Do List by Brian Bilston
• delay • defer • equivocate
• make some tea • procrastinate
• look at phone • stroke the cat
• readjust the thermostat
• dawdle • dither • hem and haw
• eat mince pie • chew my jaw
• write a card • spin on chair
• play six games of solitaire
• take a break • make a brew
• review my list of things to do
• eat mince pie • paper scrunch
• stroke the cat • have some lunch
• prioritise new tasks to shirk
(more cups of tea + less housework)
• look at phone • spin on chair
• eat mince pie • loiter • stare
• consider shopping • have quick doze
• rest mince pie on bridge of nose
• stroke the cat • take a break
• write a card • eat some cake
• spin phone • mince cat • stroke tea • wallow
• write To Do list for tomorrow
QUOTE(S): “Grief, as I read somewhere once, is a lazy Susan. One day it is heavy and underwater, and the next day it spins and stops at loud and rageful, and the next day at wounded keening, and the next day at numbness, silence.” ~ Anne Lamott
"And in the quiet, I hear the echo of your absence. In the stillness, in the silence, my heart aches with emptiness. Loss is so loud. Oh, loss is so loud." ~ Liz Newman
“When you meet someone in deep grief, slip off your shoes and set them by the door. Enter barefoot, this darkened chapel hollowed by loss, hallowed by sorrow, its grey stone walls and floor. You, congregation of one, are here to listen, not to sing. Kneel in the back pew, make no sound, let the candles speak.” ~ Patricia McKernon Runkle
"What greater grief can there be for mortals than to see their children dead." ~ Euripedes
