The holidays make me think of soft carpeted floors, cozy couches with roughly embroidered throw pillows, velvety living room chairs, and decadent lamps. In other words, vintage feelings associated with textures, antique lighting, and sounds. I think of the sound of winding up the bottom of a bell-shaped angel, wearing a faded gold gown with painted-on hair and a perfect bow mouth. How often would I have let her spin on an end table and hear her twinkly, gentle version of Silent Night?
That song consoles me. A lot of holiday songs do that. They seem to have a chokehold on my heart. My vision gets blurry from tears that well up far, far too quickly. I miss those who are gone and people and moments before they’re gone. I miss the people who hugged me on those cozy couches. What did they say to me? How much did they love me? I felt it all, anyway.
Sometimes I wonder, is this why the holidays are heavy with drinking? To put our feelings in a nice delusional box of “all is holy, all is bright” when sometimes it seems like “all is temporary, all is fright”?
I realize it’s about perspective. It’s about making the most of all the moments. But I can’t help but get lost in the aches. I feel like I’ve been this way since childhood, though. I’ve had this awareness of the temporariness of it all, and with that awareness, there’s either acceptance or sadness. Okay, maybe it’s not so black and white. It’s perhaps a dozen or so emotions or reactions that I haven’t even felt yet. I can’t help but notice that I lean more toward the sadness side.
I don’t have words of advice for myself as I tap out of this post early. I don’t have words of advice for anyone reading this who might feel a similar state of despair over the line “if the fates allow” when sung by Judy Garland. What I do have is the ability to see the people I love most as often as I can.
I guess that is advice, after all.
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