It’s strange how the holidays come at the same time every year, but yet they still sneak up on me. Suddenly, there are 400 versions of “Santa Baby” on the radio, and apparently Clark Griswold moved in next door to me — who the heck pays this man’s electric bill?
Everyone’s all Christmas-cooking crazed, but I just don’t get that excited about large feasts of any kind, truth be told. I don’t like green beans, and I’m not a fan of fried onions. And when they touch? Ew. I’m not into setting tables, and I’m certainly not into “unsetting” them. I don’t see the point in brewing coffee a couple hours before bed just because we’ve overstuffed ourselves with dessert. It all seems, well, a bit much.
But before you gear up to get all Starbucks-red-cup on me and blast me for not embracing one of America’s major holidays, let me pose a question: Can you celebrate the holidays in the traditional, quintessential manner, like they do on the Hallmark Channel, when you’re missing one key ingredient — a tribe?
Some people, like those deployed or working abroad, are apart from their families. And that’s hard. But I’m talking about the woman across the street whom I’ve never seen because she’s housebound and has professional caretakers come to her daily, or the people who’ve outlived their families or been forgotten by them. I’m talking about the people who are too depressed and/or anxious to be social. I’m talking about people like me who — due to lack of procreation, family divides, and/or emotional and physical distance — will face another holiday season with less than a party of four.
For us, Thanksgiving feels like any other Thursday night, not the day that many other people spend weeks prepping and planning for.
Holidays have been tough for me for a long time. My parents split when I was 16, and our tribe was already small. Ten years ago, my dad died a few days before Christmas. That can certainly put a damper on the holiday cheer. But more recently, my husband and I have been struggling, and for the past three years, shit seems to hit the fan every November. This year’s been no exception. But when my mother busted out with “Why bother doing it? What do we even have to be thankful for?” in a moment of despair and disappointment, I un-bunched my panties and really thought about it.
Instead of counting my blessings, I thought about what I wish I was thankful for. And I let myself grieve for the lost dreams I had of a large family with big love surrounding me and my son, for the loud laughs carrying through adorned hallways, the gobs of people huddling around a table sharing stories, the stragglers that linger until the last drop of wine pours them out into the night.
That is not my holiday. That is not my reality. But my goal is to pour gravy over that grief and point my arrow in a new direction — gratitude.
My tribe is small. My tribe has some cracks. But that doesn’t mean I don’t have plenty to be thankful for. For starters: my happy, healthy beautiful little toddler. He deserves a different experience. So I will strive to teach him that love can come in tiny whispers and simple days, every day. “Special” doesn’t mean fanfare and feasting, but in shared moments and handholds and in quiet spaces and peaceful places.
As this world challenges us to find purpose and meaning, we will remind each other that numbers are nice, but they’re not necessary. We will get back to the roots and the true tradition of this holiday — to be thankful for one another, for what we have, and even maybe for what we don’t have.
When all is said and done, maybe we’ll be thankful to not have to deal with that bigoted uncle, heated political arguments, dry turkey, and a congested drive over rivers and through woods to a grandmother’s house with that god-awful green bean casserole.
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