Post-Holiday Musings

As a young girl, I used to spend hours drawing adorable little animals on reams of rough brown newsprint that my dad brought home from our small-town post office. Whimsically dressed in Victorian attire, these big-eyed bunnies and squirrels often portrayed idyllic holiday scenes. I loved Christmas, Thanksgiving and Easter and infused my artwork with childlike hope and expectations. When I finished coloring each bonnet, bushy tail or bow, I'd hurry to show each masterpiece to my parents, relishing a few moments of their attention and praise.

I craved joy, perfection, beauty. It's painfully obvious during infrequent times when I've sorted through old drawings in an attempt to reorder the past. There's the happy squirrel mother serving cookies to Disney-cute carolers. A circle of furry faces smile around the festive Thanksgiving table.

Fast-forward to The Holidays 2010.

My husband and I have followed a fairly standard procedure of spending Thanksgiving with his family one year and my family the next. Ignoring that pattern seemed the best option this year. We had initially planned to celebrate with my family, but after weeks of trying to figure out what my siblings were planning, I thought that most of them were staying in their own homes. So we decided to spend another year with my husband's family and try to make good memories for the sake of a relative who is struggling with another bout of depression.

Several relatives had helped plan the meal and everyone furnished food. Some traveled considerable distance and paid motel expenses to foster family togetherness. But nothing seemed to lift this relative's spirits. She rarely smiled and when I made a positive comment about the day, she just said she was glad it was over.

Sometimes I wonder if all this effort was worth it.

I understand that negativity can cloud the reality that people care and are trying to make life happier for a depressed person. I'm trying to remember that she is not herself. In my frequent failures to acknowledge all that God or someone else does for me, I too stand in need of mercy and someone who gives me some slack.


On the other hand, I'm slowly learning that I can't "make it all better" for someone else--this relative in particular. I can listen, empathize, and even offer an awkward (though well-meant) hug. But my efforts can't fix anything, convince her to stay on medication or make the anxiety go away. At some point I have to let go and consider other valid needs.

Much as I once loved creating images of a perfect holiday, it's a fantasy that doesn't exist. Don't get me wrong. I'm no Scrooge. I start listening to Christmas music well before Thanksgiving. I like spending time with family. But this year other commitments (besides the usual shopping) and personal struggles drained my energy. My youngest child decorated the Christmas tree and the rest of the house after I'd crashed on the couch one evening. I let my husband do some of the cooking. I told my daughter there was butter and cream cheese in the fridge if she wanted to bake raspberry ribbons or other goodies. She went on a creative writing binge instead. That's OK.

We shared laughter and our brand of crazy togetherness during the past few weeks. Like every family, we struggle with problems, but it feels like we're learning to live with an ever-evolving reality.

Meanwhile, I'll tuck away my childhood drawings from holidays past. For auld lang syne.