The Farewell

Throughout my young adult years, I clung to what had been childhood traditions in an attempt to keep the rare moments of family celebration alive. But they were built by our mother, and though I didn't see it until years later, they were laced with her frantic drive for perfection in herself and her children. I loved the idea of the big meals and opening presents together, but none of it was free of stress or the anxiety of the need to please her.

Then a friend let me come to his family's house for Christmas and for years they shared their beautifully imperfect traditions, and I accepted that things could be joyfully messy.

I began a ritual for myself 20 years ago, in a year that brought with it the tremendous loss of a beloved sister and nephew. But, it also brought a daughter to lighten my family's heart and the weight we bore. She walked on her toddler legs and brought flowers and giggles to my brother and she stayed at his side. Their bond was forged by her small hands.

In December of 2005, with no clear intention, I painted, wrote, walked, danced and sang. I let the sorrow have a path of expression, to find it's way from my heart and out into the air so that the trees and the earth would claim and cleanse it.

In the years that followed, other forms of creative arts woke and joined during the darkening days: baking and sharing the goodies, sewing clothes for myself or others. I began to see the unconscious ritual as something important and helpful.

The one act that surprised and delighted me was buying seeds for the Spring to come: tomatoes and cucumbers and lettuce, bachelor buttons and pansies. I finally was aware of my need to look forward to the thaw and the light. To make a small plan, though I rarely make plans.

This year has brought with it change and loss that has enveloped me with deep sadness, fear and anxiety. I have struggled my way through the months, eating my grief, unable to touch the small things that once were comforts, and into December with no clear path into the new year except survival.

Yet in clear moments when I break through the darkness, I know that I still have a daughter that brightens my days, and I am filled with love and gratitude for friends and family and the gifts from my community: gifts of their time, their labor, their company. A gate was built, a bathroom created, a room painted, weeds pulled. A gift of music that let me sing again, and then the great honor of singing songs that have stayed with me since I was a part of a workshop ten years ago for Come From Away. These beautiful moments created room for breathe, and I hold them close, like warmth itself. Gratitude is too small a word for these great gifts.

The release of 2025 has to happen, so I am singing even when the tears flow. I am painting to create harmony for myself. Today I will walk in the rare sunshine and breathe in the taste of Winter that will soon be here. Music fills the house, candles are lit, warm food is shared. I can now raise my head enough to give my time to my friends and neighbors and today I will sing carols with retirees at a local community.

With each moment of awareness comes acceptance and acknowledgement: a body that wakes and carries me, a small world that allows space for love and compassion. With each act of creating, I will speak kind words to myself and tend to the very small fire that is Hope.