Feeling All The Feels At Christmas

“Mr. D!” My grandmother’s voice echoes through the house. The screen door off the kitchen slams shut. “Hey, Kris! Merry Christmas!” My grandpop holds a giant tin of homemade pizzelle cookies as he hugs us all hello. After filling ourselves with cookies, we sit down to a dinner of ravioli with homemade Dondero spaghetti sauce. When we finish the main course, I watch my grandpop drizzle oil and vinegar over a bowl full of salad greens. He insists on filling everyone’s plate, then he sits down, with his glass of homemade red wine and the leftover salad in the giant wooden bowl — Christmas at the Donderos.

My husband reminded me that I once said Christmas was not my favorite time of year. Admitting it felt like blasphemy. It’s true. I’d rather run a 5K than decorate a Christmas tree. When the lights sparkle, I feel time slipping away. I remember holidays with my grandparents, both paternal and maternal. I miss them. With every Christmas change sprinkles like snow creating a new landscape, different from the years before, reminding me of what I felt as a kid after a day of sledding in the Pennsylvania snow. Numb. Time has a new meaning. Suddenly I want to press pause and forbid change to enter and redecorate. I try to shove the sadness beneath layers of happiness. Look at the lights! Feel joy!  Put on Mariah Carey’s All I Want For Christmas. For god’s sake, have some hot cocoa! When even chocolate fails to stir the Christmas spirit, that’s when guilt chips away at the ice. Guilt asks, what’s the matter with you? Guilt tells me I better decorate, wear a smile, and buy lots of gifts.

I was in the grocery store the other day and heard a little girl crying loudly. She was saying to her father, who was pushing the cart, “I’m not a baby! I’m not a baby!” He answered, “Well, you are certainly crying like one.” Anger boiled inside me. I wanted his words to explain that everyone cries. I wanted to tell them both that it was okay to cry. I stopped. Was it? Did I really believe it was okay to cry? No. I hate crying! When the aha moment came carrying understanding and a tear to my eye instinctually, I shoved it down.  I paused. There was my answer to the tundra inside of me. It began with a tear that stayed locked behind a smile.

Finally, I understood why thoughts of Christmas brought more stress than joy. Sadness from missing loved ones, fear of change, grief for what will no longer be, overwhelming emotions I’ve tried to ignore all for the sake of holiday happiness — layers of emotion as thick as ice that numbed me from the inside out.  Slowly I must learn to be brave and acknowledge the sadness that comes with remembering. I must whisper to myself what I wanted that father to say to his daughter. It’s okay to cry even during the holidays. In fact, it’s necessary in order to feel joy.

So, if you see me with a tin full of pizzelle cookies and puffy eyes, it’s okay. I’m practicing bravery and allowing the joy in remembering to melt my tundra of tears.

Photo by Toa Heftiba on Unsplash