For those who are not so happy at Christmas

Tiffany, Bernadette, Susan (standing); Marie & Anne sitting

I wasn't sure I was going to write a post this Christmas because I knew it wasn't going to be a happy one, but I realize there are other people out there whose hearts are aching, missing a family member or partner or friend who has died, or perhaps is away from home. As I type, fat flakes of snow swirl past my window, the tall spruce are laden, heavy branches slow shimmying in the wind, bushes cotton-wooly, stems black brush strokes beneath the snow. It's pretty out there, that's for sure, snow accumulating quickly, muffling noise, dressing up the landscape. Daniel and Noelle, who were to drive up today to stay with us over the holidays, will come tomorrow morning. No big deal, but I was ready for them. And I will be ready tomorrow, but if I could wish them here swiftly and safely, I would.

I miss my sister, Bernadette, who died in October, and because of her death, this year I also miss the rest of my family. John & Tanja & Mackenzie and my entire big and extended family in Ontario and Andy's family, too. I want them ALL here in my living room, or I want to transport all the people I love here in Nova Scotia and our beloved Dawsonites with us to be with the Ontarians. Not going to happen. This isn't a movie or a sappy novel. It doesn't end that way for most of us.

I will admit right now that I am not at my best in the pre-solstice, low light, coming-into-Christmas time. I always thought I hated Christmas, a time in which I felt inadequate to the challenges of buying the right gifts, making the ones I loved most happy, making the right food (my son hated the way I cooked a turkey and told me, after eating a Thanksgiving turkey that my sister, Nancy, cooked, that her way was the best way to cook turkey), decorating (I love a very spare tree most), being joyous, being religious, so it took our move north to the Yukon for me to realize it was the lack of light that brought me low as much as anything, because I went into a profound depression that had nothing to do with anything I could pinpoint, and turned out to have everything to do with only four or so hours of daylight, with none of it very bright. So in fact I like Christmas (as I write this I think I am lying but I'm not going to analyse that) but I don't so well in the dark.

Regarding the dark: I want to thank my neighbours Shelly & Maxine Dauphney for putting up the most exquisite grouping of lights in the world. Their lights are geometric and vari-coloured, and stretch to vividly light up a house and trees set well back from the Cabot Trail. Last year the lights went up late and I had almost despaired when driving home one evening, there they were, and life was once again good. This year their lights are the best ever.

Now to my sister, Bernadette. She converted to Jehovah Witness several years ago and I asked about missing family Christmases, which are big events in our family that she used to host in Ayr with her husband, Alex. I teased her, because of my own antipathy for the holiday, that the reason she had converted was because she would never have to go through Christmas again. She looked at me sideways, as she liked to do when having a serious discussion, and dead-panned, "You could be right, but I'm not admitting anything." And the twinkle and slow smile she always gave when turning the serious on its head, was there. And we laughed. I missed her more at Christmas largely due to the fact that she didn't celebrate it. I miss her terribly this Christmas because she isn't here NOT to celebrate it.

So I think what I'm getting at is to tell all of you who are sad for whatever reason today, two days before Christmas, that it's all right to be sad. But I also want to wish you whatever happiness you can find in the season. The cards from friends you never see any more, but love to hear from. The carols (religious carols always make me cry) that don't grate too much. Like our pretty snow (despite it keeping my loved ones from me), like Shelly and Maxine's lights, like the sound of the wind in the eaves, like the giddy laughter of Alistair Sim's Scrooge when he awakens alive and with enough time to make amends, or my own laughter when the dogs steal the turkey in The Christmas Story, or when the child falls into the snow bank and can't move because he has so many clothes on. No matter what it is, I hope it comes to you, presents itself in such a way that your dark and bruised heart can open to it and embrace whatever solace and lightness is offered.

So my friends, tidings of comfort and joy in whatever wee increments and small ways you are able to manage. And if you can't manage it this year, let's hope next year is gentler to us all.

Our spare, but pretty tree