A Melancholy Pot of Cheese
I see you
This is not the easiest of seasons for many people. It can be lonely, or bittersweet, or brimming with echoes of other times. My youngest son is here with his wife and two daughters, and that is a true deep joy, and tonight we’ll have cheese fondue for Christmas Eve, then play board games, like my granddaughter’s new discovery, No Mercy Uno, which is just as punishing as it sounds.
All very happy, but of course, the scene is never as perfect as it appears. The fondue is a tradition that was born the year after I divorced, when we desperately needed new ideas, so I came up with both cheese and chocolate fondue for the hours before midnight Mass. The first year, we were a ragtag group of women and children, friends from a small writing group, a mother and daughter who had rescued dozens of cats and housed them in a comfy barn out in the county, my own boys, maybe one of my son’s friends. It was a long time ago, but I remember the feeling that I was forcing good cheer, that it was all a hollow echo of happier times.
And yet, it was good. Good enough that the tradition, false to start, became something real over time, something we’d hate to miss now. The girls have only ever know it as a happy celebration, the way we ring in this sacred holiday night.
If you are in the midst of a holiday season heavy with memory or grief or illness or whatever other thing that makes it feel hard, I see you. Do whatever you like this season—celebrate or don’t; sing or don’t; read all day or binge ten shows or take five hot baths. Make your favorite food (holiday or not) and treat yourself kindly. Maybe you’ll have a new tradition on the other side, or maybe you won’t.
Just remember that you are not alone this week. Hold out a ghostly hand for the invisible, unknown person who also feels sad or lonely or broken, and know that I’m here holding your hand, too. The circle will turn again.
Now, I have to go cut cauliflower for the fondue, and I think I missed a call from my son who ran to the store for me. Be well. I’ll see you in the new year.
Thank you tor all the wonderful hours lost in your characters Their lives and love’s Barbara.
Ive read everything you’ve written I think and am now re reading them again in pure enjoyment, thank you and a very Merry Christmas dear woman .
What you said, Barbara--absolutely, and absolutely true (and marvelous)!
If you don't want to celebrate, don't, if at all possible. I have had recent years where I metaphorically made a blanket fort and stayed there until all the holly jolly went away. If you feel like that, I echo Barbara--do what you need to do, as much as you are able (if you have others depending on you to be there, I get that). But take care of yourself. It's crucial. This time of year can be so painful.
This year, for the first time in a few, I actually have been eager to celebrate, and have been since November. When joy arrives for you again, grab it!
Merry and happy and joyous everything to everyone, whatever that means to you, even if it means you eat cheese and crackers inside a blanket fort and binge on books. Do what heals.