Coping With the Holiday Blues
Rev. Millie Rochester
December 14, 2008
I was at my computer answering email when the doorbell rang. Our neighbor, Jim, was standing on the doorstep. He's a matter-of-fact, plain-spoken, get-things-done sort, always sweeping, trimming and puttering in his yard; always has a friendly smile. Shortly after we moved in, his wife Eileen invited me over for a visit, and when Roger had vertigo, Jim came over and mowed the lawn.
But when I opened the door that day, Jim's smile was self-conscious. He looked as if he had suddenly forgotten what he had planned to say, and stammered a little: "I've got all these Christmas decorations...I…I can't…" His sentence trailed off.
Eileen died less than a year ago. Just the thought of all those Christmas decorations was too much for Jim to handle. He gratefully accepted my offer of help, and we sorted through the decorations together.
The December festivals of light are here. Holiday themed movies and cartoons are on TV, every store blasts "Jingle Bells" and its equivalent. All of the stores seem to be marketing good cheer. The holiday roller-coaster is picking up speed and woe to anyone who's not enjoying the ride. Everyone is happy - right? Wrong. In reality, many people feel sad, anxious, lonely, and depressed, on a collision course with the holiday season. Our neighbor Jim is just one example. Maybe you feel that way, too.
The holiday blues are such a common phenomenon that "googling" the phrase brought forth more than five hundred thousand web sites! Yet those of us who are bummed out feel out of step, isolated, abnormal. This disparity between how we actually feel and what we think we are supposed to feel is enough to cause guilt and confusion. Maude Purcell, a licensed clinical social worker, lifts up additional reasons for the holiday blues, and notes that even children can be affected.
Memories play a key role. Our conscious and unconscious mental record of holidays past - whether happy or sad - affects our mood. Missing someone - being separated emotionally or geographically - can be particularly painful, and holidays can be brutal reminders of the loss of loved ones who have died: gifts that are not purchased, wrapped and given, places not set at the table, voices and laughter not heard, amplifying whatever loneliness we feel. And our consumer culture, which encourages spending and over-spending, is not geared to the financial hardship many of us are experiencing. We are primed to feel inadequate.
Does any of this seem familiar? The only cause for the holiday blues that we here in Florida might reasonably expect to escape is seasonal affective disorder - depression caused by lack of sunshine.
Many of the rituals we associate with the season, such as unpacking cherished ornaments, decorating the house, shopping, and cooking can all become emotionally draining chores, rather than invigorating pastimes. Having a good time seems impossible. In the face of such issues, people might go to extremes - wanting to completely withdraw on the one hand, and feeling obligated to accept every invitation on the other; and then we feel completely overwhelmed - mentally, physically, and emotionally.
The season can be a complicated time not just for individuals, but for communities of faith such as ours. Many of us recall that on this day last year, we lost five beloved members - Andrea, Jenn, Olivia, Magnus, and Oliver - under very tragic circumstances. We remember their presence among us and the terrible pain and grief that we experienced following their deaths.
So there's no doubt this is a complicated time of year. Numbness, exhaustion, guilt and anxiety may even reach beyond the holiday blues, may be clinical depression. This is a treatable medical condition. Recognizing the difference can help us decide to reach out for help.
Just as there is no shortage of descriptions and causes for the holiday blues, there are scores of suggestions for coping, ways to help make the holidays more bearable, perhaps even enjoyable. Virtually every authority on the subject agrees that, first of all, it's okay to feel what you feel. There are no "right" or "wrong" feelings, so acknowledge yours. If a loved one has recently died or you are estranged, or not able to be with your loved ones, realize that it's normal to feel sadness or grief. Whatever the season, you can't force yourself to be happy; why would that be different during the holidays?
Contrary to popular opinion, there are no rules for how you spend this time. Trying to make this season duplicate those of the past can just intensify the difference. Decide which if any traditions to keep, and if old traditions revive unhappy memories, start new ones. Share the holidays with good friends instead of family. Try something different from a big holiday dinner if cooking feels like too much.
You might light a special candle to honor the memory of a loved one, or just make room for the memories. Don't attempt to go through the holidays pretending that nothing has happened. Think about holiday seasons you have enjoyed, and identify the memories you want to hold in your heart forever. No one can take those away from you. Celebrate them and be grateful. Focus on what you have, rather than what you have lost.
Allow yourself some solitude, as well as time to garner support from friends and family - and remember that you can define for yourself who comprises "family." It may help to express your feelings for an absent loved one in writing, through a letter or journal. Allow even painful feelings to surface. And (this is important) give yourself permission not only to feel sad, but also to experience joy. When you feel your spirits being lifted, don't resist!
You don't have to go it alone, resources are available. When it comes to self-care, a common metaphor is the oxygen mask on an airline. We are always reminded to apply it to ourselves before tending to someone else. By the same token, protect your health: eat nutritious food, favor water over alcohol, get enough sleep.
Another aspect of self-care is being realistic, both in terms of people and things. Despite our consumer culture, you know that happiness cannot be bought with an avalanche of expensive gifts, so stay within your budget by giving gifts from the heart rather than the wallet - gifts of time and love.
We're all human: children will become overtired and whine just as predictably as adults will. The main course will be over cooked or under cooked, traffic will be congested, the perfect gift will be elusive...and all of that is okay. Cherish what blessings you can count as yours. Take stock of all of the positives in your life - right here, right now.
The other day, our neighbor Jim told me that he misses Eileen; he always will. Coming across all their holiday decorations, he felt overwhelmed by the memories they evoked. Still, he said, he thinks he's incredibly lucky this holiday season. For now, at least, he is content to accept one day at a time and let the Florida sun shine down on him. May we all do the same.
Rev. Abhi Janamanchi
December 14, 2008
Let us take a few moments in remembrance of the five lives we lost on this day last year - Andrea Pisanello, Jennifer Davis, Olivia Bernsdorff, and Magnus Bernsdorff. And Oliver Bernsdorff.
For the past year, we've been doing the difficult work of mourning and grieving, letting go and trying to forgive, and journeying toward healing. That work was made more difficult by the tragic circumstances in which lives were lost. Yet we persevered as a community committed to each other's well being and healing. And we survived.
If anything, their deaths brought us closer together. Their deaths brought us face to face with Life. We learned to live Life again, though hesitantly, slowly at first. The paradox here is that death, and that too, death that came suddenly - out of time and too soon, opened us to Life and living.
It is this paradox that is highlighted in the ancient Buddhist story of Kisa Gotami and the mustard seed.
There once lived a young woman named Kisa Gotami whose only son died suddenly. In her grief she carried the dead child to all her neighbors, asking them for medicine to revive him, and people thought she had lost her senses. At length Kisa Gotami met a man who suggested that she go and see Gautama Buddha, the enlightened one.
Kisa Gotami went to the Buddha and cried: "Lord and Master, give me the medicine that will revive my boy." The Buddha answered: "I want a handful of mustard-seed." And when the mother in her joy promised to procure it, the Buddha added: "The mustard-seed must be taken from a house where no one has lost a child, husband, parent, or friend." Kisa Gotami now went from house to house, and the people pitied her and said: "Here is mustard-seed; take it!" But when she asked, "Did a son or daughter, a father or mother, die in your family?" They answered her: "Alas the living are few, but the dead are many. Do not remind us of our deepest grief." And there was no house where a beloved one had not died in it.
Kisa Gotami became weary and hopeless, and sat down at the wayside, considering her situation and the fate of human beings, that their lives flicker up and are extinguished like the lights of the city. And she thought to herself: "How selfish am I in my grief!"
Death is common to all; yet in this valley of desolation there is a path that leads one to immortality who has surrendered all selfishness and attachments."
So putting away the selfish attachment towards her child, Kisa Gotami had the dead body buried and returned to the Buddha to take refuge in him.
The Buddha taught her: "The life of mortals in this world is troubled and brief and combined with pain. For there is not any means by which those that have been born can avoid dying. As ripe fruits are early in danger of falling, so mortals when born are always in danger of death. As all earthen vessels made by the potter end in being broken, so is the life of mortals. Both young and adult, all fall into the power of death; all are subject to death."
"A person who seeks peace should pull out the arrow of lamentation, and complaint, and grief. She who has drawn out the arrow and has become composed will obtain peace of mind; he who has overcome all sorrow will become free from sorrow, and be blessed."
What the Buddha is trying to remind us is that we all have losses. Every single one of us. Necessary and unnecessary losses. Expected and unexpected losses. Ordinary and not-so-ordinary losses.
Death may be the most devastating loss we can sustain. But there are other losses that feel more sharp, losses for which there are no rites of passage, no ceremonies of community acknowledgment and comfort. Like a divorce, job loss, for childhood being over, children leaving home, retirement, moving into assisted living.
I sometimes wish we had rituals to acknowledge and let go of the ordinary mistakes parents make in raising their children. We get hurt growing up, in lots of ordinary ways, for which it is sometimes all too easy to blame people who meant well, who did as well as they could, but who also did some pretty dumb and hurtful things.
There ought to be rituals beyond therapy to burn the hoarded sins of our parents and siblings and scatter the ashes and get on with life, refusing to continually blame our fathers and mothers and brothers and sisters of our lives.
There ought to be a spiritual way for those who have survived cruelty, neglect, and abuse as children to acknowledge and celebrate the strength and the grace that allowed them to reach adulthood wounded but still hopeful, rituals that would release them to their lives, even though the debt to them can never be repaid or the abuse undone. There ought to be rituals to affirm their reclamation of self-worth, dignity, self-respect, and self-love.
There need to be rituals to acknowledge to ourselves and our faith community that we messed up, and want to atone and do better.
Acknowledging our frailties and our failures is the first step; saying it aloud helps get beyond guilt, shame, ego, and self-pity to what we need to do to heal and rebuild our lives.
My colleague Barbara Pescan recounts a tradition of the Plains Indians known as the Wintercount that she found in a book by Barry Holstun Lopez. She writes,
In the evenings in the winter, the clan gathers around the fire and one of the elders takes the old buffalo robes. On the robes are pictures, some of them I imagine as sharply drawn and clear - they have been more recently drawn. Some of the pictures on the buffalo robes are probably blurred and smudged - they are older, perhaps as old as the robes themselves. Each picture stands for events that happened in a particular year.
The family sits together, tracing the pictures with their eyes and with their fingers. The pictures make a web of stories. It is in this way that the family remembers its people, and in this way the younger members learn what has happened in the past, and what people and events have made them who they are. This was the year of the big snow; and this was the year that game was plentiful. This was the year so many babies were born. This was the year the wise woman died.
This was when the young men went to war. This is when the old ones danced to heal them when they came back. And here is the tally of big rains, and long droughts, and this year the food was scarce; and this year, we had enough.
She continues, "Imagine life's path as an ascending spiral staircase. Think of grief as a thread that comes into our hands, or is given to us, or is something we trip over as we are traveling up the stairs. The thread in our hands tugs at us, and we discover that it goes over the edge of the railing, and, like a plumb line, drops out of sight down the center of the spiral staircase. It is attached to something, way down out of sight, near the beginning.
As we pull on this end, it feels heavy, and if we pull and pull until we have the whole roll of twine in our hands, what we hold in our hands is every loss, every grief, every suffering we ever had, connected to this new one. One after another, braided together, all the way back to the beginning. And all we have learned about grieving and loss is there, in all those previous losses. And all the healing is there too, tear by tear. And all that is yet to be unhealed.
We have to mount our staircase alone. And as we go up, step by step, we are turning, again and again, round and round, apparently covering little ground, but climbing upward, we hope, toward the light, a new dawn, a new day."
What my colleague is trying to say is that we cannot un-lose what has been lost. That's not what healing is about. We will never, once and for all, be done with our mourning. None of the people we lose to death is replaceable or will ever be forgotten. None of us is erasable from another's life. When I look around this sanctuary I still see and remember those who are no longer here - Norm Peterson, Dorothy Young, Bud Wylie, Mary Flanagan, Hal East, Florence Cohan Austin, Zora Reece, and many others who have gone before them. The pain of their loss remains; our love remains.
The wise ones tell us that over time the pain of the loss gets less. I have experienced this myself. Now, when I remember my grandfather, I can still hear his voice; I can still feel the warmth of his breath on my head and the beating of his heart as I lay on his chest; I can still feel the love in the bear hug he used to give me when he came to visit on my birthday. And on days when my heart is real soft, I cry. But the pain is less than it was two and half years ago.
The pain is less because I have found places to put the strength of my love for my grandfather; I have found places and people where the movement and gestures of his deep and abiding love for me go on. The pain is less, I think, because I have mourned other losses, too, including the death of my grandmother last year, the deaths of dear friends Marjorie Bowens Wheatley and Frank Robertson, and the deaths of beloved church members - people who made an impact on my life and helped me become a better person by my knowing them. And the pain is less because of the remembrance which impels me to say 'yes' to life and look to the future.' This, at least to me, is what immortality is all about, these gestures of remembrance. These summoning of the first fruits of relationship, though they cannot replace who or what was lost, do heal us.
There's a wonderful reading by Richard Gilbert that clarifies the difference between remembering and remembrance.
"Remembering," he says, "is a simple act of recalling the past - it's shape and lineaments and moments."
"Remembrance, however, is quite a different matter. [It] is recalling the past in a way which inspires us to mold a future."
"Remembering is easy. Humans are remembering creatures. We remember as regularly as we eat and sleep. It is as natural as getting up in the morning and going to bed at night. It is an act of the mind."
But "remembrance is hard. It requires that the memory of the past to guide our present and inspire our future. Remembrance is active - - it catches up the memory and mixes it in the alchemy of our lives, and we emerge from the process as new people."
"Remembrance catches up the memory and mixes it in the alchemy of our lives, and we emerge from the process as new people."
We emerge as new people because the life after those losses - the release of children into their own growing lives, the letting go of an old self at the forming edge of the new, the loss of our self-respect when we transgress against one another and against our own life - the moving on is possible when we pause and acknowledge what we are depends on what we were, the joyful parts and the sad parts, the soft parts and the hard parts, the whole parts and the sometimes damaging parts.
We are more than the sum total of our failures and accomplishments. We are more than the sum of our gains and losses. We are more than the sum of the damage done to us or the damage we do to others. We are the sum of our stories, our memories, our relationships with their frictions and frayed feelings, the weaving of our lives with all these other lives, and more. How could we be otherwise? Like the Plains Indians, we too find it necessary to keep teaching ourselves the stories of our lives by remembering what has happened to us from year to year, what has shaped us, what has woven us together, what continues to weave us together. We will forget what has made us, again and again; we will forget who we are and what we believe, again and again; and we will remember again, and we will remind each other again.
That's what a beloved community is all about. It's just not about feeling warm and fuzzy together but, at times, learning to face the discomfort together.
So shall we mourn without ceasing? No, let us mourn when we are mourning and rejoice when are rejoicing - let us have them both, for both are necessary for us to grow into fullness. As William Blake said, "Joy and woe are woven fine... Under every grief and pine, runs a joy with silken twine. It is right it should be so, [we were] made for joy and woe.'
And in a community like this, let us minister to each other in our joy and in our woe, in our pain and in our hurt, when we are sinned against and when we sin and make a mess of our lives and other people's lives, as we grieve and as we heal.
And as we do this work, let us also hold in remembrance those persons, those events, those experiences, that have the power to transform our lives.
For this is how individuals grow in faith, and this is how the community grows together, and, in all weathers and seasons of the spirit, make this place a sanctuary and refuge, a haven and home.
REFERENCES:
The Spiral Stair by Barbara Pescan
Living On Paradox Drive, Meditations by Richard Gilbert
|
