In my life I’ve been suspect of joy. Actually of the whole Joy family inclusive of cousins Bliss and Happiness. I’d catch an emotional glance at them hovering around the corners of my mood, appearing light and unencumbered, then scoff at them, thinking air-heads. It seemed a siren call to put down my worry-pack, open myself up to what I saw as their simplicity, then wham, gut-punch of pain. I would not fall for this. For that reason it was crucial to stay on guard and keep the worry-pack close at hand, even if it became increasingly heavier with old stuff I could have left behind eons ago.
I never took the time to investigate the J family close enough to understand that the matriarch, Nuance, could explain about layers and holding a few things at once. How you didn’t have to trade in one emotion for another but that they could romp around together. Instead I was all, dark, head-in-hands, existential Camus-ish drama. Fine, yes, I was in college during the depth of these moments and I know that it was my job to feel overly much during this part of my life but moving to New York City and shrugging on all-black, the city-certified color code, only served to solidify my commitment to emotional gravity. Plus I was from California so shedding the sunshine vibes was a thing to take seriously.
But during the season of twinkling lights—roughly end-of-October to January—I felt a wonderment adjacent to joy that I had a hard time ignoring. I wasn’t all that vocal about it but I did give in to walking up and down Fifth Avenue appreciating the sparkly window displays and the giant tree in Rockefeller Center that I could never really get that close to given the thousands of other humans who felt the same way I did. There were also the side neighborhoods with the subtler displays that twinkled after dark. I loved those too. (Then there’s Dyker Heights, Brooklyn, where over-the-top light displays are like a visit to another planet where electricity is just another word for blindingly bright.) Over time, I came to understand that I could indulge in these annual emotional shiny bits and that they could ride alongside gravity. It wasn’t as if I’d forgotten about sadness or world-strife or even personal discomfort.
Thinking back, I only have good memories about the lead-up and subsequent night before and morning of Christmas. Sure, I’m an only child who in my younger years had a set of grandparents on my dad’s side and an occasionally present grandmother on my mom’s. There was definitely doting. So that particular holiday saw a windfall of books, dolls, Matchbox cars, and whatever else I may have pointed a small finger at and said, I like that, which would then end up under the tree. Even in my teenage years after my parents divorce when I split the difference between mom’s for the Eve and dad’s during the Day, I still let my heart twinkle with the lights. We weren’t church-goers although in my early-early years I think there might have been an Eve visit where the music made me feel a lot of things.
My NYC twinkle-season holidays were often shaggy dog affairs if I was working and staying in the city. I was never sad about those. The most memorable one was when I hosted an Eve meal at my apartment on 14th street. There were about six people I loved dearly around a table for barely four. Before they arrived I lit candles too close to the fir branches stuffed in a vase and they went up in flames. Yet still, all that was lost was the foliage. I made veal because I’d decided … I actually have no idea what I’d decided my culinary choice was there. One of my guests who was a vegetarian was horrified, one of my guests who was Scottish appreciated, and now, in retrospect, I too am sad about the veal, feeling as I do about animals and in particular how veal comes to be. It also snowed. The whole night, as I remember it, was a lot of things. A container holding my need to feed and please, and an ache for the past I’d grown away from.
Time and understanding. How the now and then blur. The lines are colored outside the boundaries and one messy picture of life emerges. When we moved here to Cali to be with my dad, the last three Christmases have seen me determined to make magic moments. Magic is a big word and an even bigger responsibility. There were certainly moments of loveliness, so much loveliness, and joy. There was also, I see now and am not surprised by, elements of my forward motion that did not allow for soaking in the actual feelings at hand. I wanted badly for my dad to be happy. And, as we ate our oyster stew with crusty bread on the Eve—a thing that happened because he’d talk about how his mom had made oyster stew on their family Eve, so I wanted to recreate that memory, after we’d opened one present because that’s what you did the night before, then the next day as I handed out a present to each of my favorite guys, I knew he was happy. I also knew he’d have been happy sitting with us in a (heated) cave as long as we were together.
I tried extra-hard last year as I saw the edge of dementia peeling back steadily and decided to dazzle him with distraction. This was not altogether successful. Understanding that to have a day going to See’s Candies, Barnes and Noble, then to lunch as we’d done the years before and which had turned into, in my mind, a tradition, was not the pleasant outing for him that I’d crossed my emotional fingers and wished for. It was instead exhausting and disorienting yet I know he was determined to do it, mostly to make me happy. (That sound is a piece of my heart that just broke off and fell to the floor.) Still&all, the simple days of the season were lovely.
This year is particularly poignant. I love the twinkling lights, the smell of fir, the cozy bits, and nog. I recognize the joy and understand the tear rolling down my cheek is a mixture of all sorts of things that probably don’t need a label because they just are. I miss my dad. I also feel warm and happy when I think about him. I’m choosing joy because why not. I’m also allowing for grief because of course. The other day I saw the video below (also click here), which is so happy-making that I wept snottily and messily while also grinning and warm with happy (just watched it again. Still having that effect.). Because it’s one-hundred-percent true, the whole family of feelings can tumble together: awe, aching heart, giggling, raw sobs, and the rest. Bruises happen. So does joy.
(I’m out of town next week so will see you all in the New Year!)
Does This Make Me Look 
You must be logged in to post a comment.