Alone But Together At The Holidays

non-spooky visitation edition

Hello! Welcome to another edition of Writing My Mind. Thanks so much for being here! Hope your December is off to a strong start. Or at least a decent one.

This post gets into the flipside of “the most wonderful time of the year,” becasue it’s not all fun and (reindeer) games, is it. Audio version included for your listening pleasure.

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Alone But Together At The Holidays

Listen to this post:

I know I am my own person. I mean, that’s like, a given. I make my own decisions, I’m responsible for making my own way. This seems to mean more when you get to be my age, and you start to realize the time you have left for “making your own way” is a lot shorter than it used to be.

Some days, this feels really daunting. It’s a lot of responsibility that honestly, I’m not sure I’m up for. Not like, “I don’t think I want to do adulting today.” Everyone has days like that, I imagine. No, this is more like, “I’m not sure I’m able to do this.” When they gave out instruction manuals, I was in the corner reading a book and didn’t hear the announcement.

Occasionally, though, I experience a moment where I don’t feel quite so alone. It’s usually when I’m doing something with my hands—a simple task of some kind. This morning I was wiping down the skillet in preparation for making an omelet, and as I ran my hand along the inside of the pan, I felt the presence of my dad in the movement.

It was as if he was there with me, and the movement was his. It was more than having inherited a similar habit. It was an act that had come from him through me.

Isn’t that funny, to receive such a strong physical, emotional, and spiritual sensation from cleaning a pan! But that’s how life is. Big moments often come at small times.

This morning I stopped wiping the pan, and just stood there, feeling the feels. Feeling very strongly that I am not only “my own person,” but I am also a creation of my parents, and a product of my ancestors. Plugged in to a collective consciousness that is bigger than me.

I’m not really alone.

Maybe this is all something my mind has invented as a way to get through darker moments. I wouldn’t put it past me; over the last year and a half I’ve discovered that I’ve been inventing all sorts of coping mechanisms for 54 years now. In any case, it felt real and it felt nice, so really, who cares what the reality is.

Sometimes I have moments when I feel my mom is with me. Like when I am pressing the crust into the springform pan as I make her cheesecake recipe. I see her hands, there with mine, being patient and careful and enjoying the act of creating.

Both of my parents were makers—my mom was amazing at sewing and papercrafts and had an eye for beauty and color that sadly, I don’t think I inherited. My dad received an MFA in jewelry making, and created pottery, and did woodworking, and so much more.

my mom decorating the tree with handmade ornaments, late 1960s, my dad's pottery, late 1960s, me.

I know I’m me, and I’m here in this life to do whatever it is I dreamed up before I got here. But I’m also part of something bigger, and on cold, cloudy days leading up to the end of the year, that gives me comfort.