I am sitting at my computer. We have had a meal of takeaway (the local “Chippy”, for my American followers). The presents are (mostly) wrapped, and hidden in the bathtub in my room. Stranger things have happened.
I am not a Christian. I do not believe that Christ is the son of God. I don’t believe in God as some omnipotent anthropomorphized entity that throws arbitrary blessings and punishments at human beings. Christmas for me is much like the other holidays (holy days) that my eclectic family observes; we observe Chanukah in reverence and respect for the members of our family who hold the traditions and faiths of Judaism. We observe Yule out of respect for the history and traditions of Nature worship. We celebrate Christmas out of love, respect, and tradition for the great majority of our family who are Christians, who believe in Christ according to their denominations and observances, and because of the social and cultural associations we have with the joys of Christmas.
As a result of that love, respect, and tradition, it won’t surprise any of you who know me to know that so much of my love for this season is about my Mom.
Mom loved all things Christmas. In fact, from the middle of November until after the New Year, Mom was in her happy place. She was so amazingly quirky about how she went about things – Thanksgiving and then Christmas and then the sad putting away of the time. She would bustle around the house, not making everything perfect for everyone else, but making everything just the way she liked it. Our tree covered in aluminum icicles, so thick that you couldn’t see the ornaments hidden behind the silvery curtains. The bowls of ribbon candies and mixed nuts set out on every table, as if we were having company at any moment. The music – this might be my most heartrending memory – the music playing loudly throughout the house, on the stereo equipment that my father saved up to buy for a very long time, and Mom’s incredibly sweet, if untrained, voice singing along as she bustled about hanging mistletoe, or making candies.
Here in the UK, I am surrounded by people who love me. I have made incredible friendships with people who are selfless and loving and giving to their core. They are not my family, though. I sit here, healing, not having much energy to bustle about hanging mistletoe and icicles and lights. And I listen to Nat King Cole singing his Christmas Song, and I can hear every single note in my Mom’s voice. Every. Single. Note. I feel both her presence and her absence sharply.
I struggle to make these connections for my children. I want them to feel the joy of tradition, the joy of family in these times. I want them to feel this intensity of emotion when they are reminded of me in years to come. I think these types of memories are the sweetest gifts I have from my Mom. Her pure joy. Her love of us and for the season. I never wanted for that.
Maybe not the singing, though. My children will thank me if they don’t hear my voice in every Note of the Christmas Song. But I can teach them the Christmas Song in Nat’s voice. And I can share with them, every time we hear it, my memories of Mom.
Transitions 