December was going along fine. The old Subaru passed inspection so we could give the car to our son Alex, a friend launched her first book, I received not one but two book offers, and we bought a new Subaru. Santa Claus was coming to town! But as the Christmas holiday approached, Merle Haggard’s “If we make it through December” seemed a more appropriate theme song. Cold rain began to fall on Wednesday afternoon the 21st, while my daughter was driving with our granddaughter to spend the holidays with us. A six-hour drive took eight. Thursday morning brought freezing rain and ice then more cold rain and wind. That afternoon, my son and his partner experienced delays when they flew from LaGuardia to Charlottesville. Then on Friday evening the 23rd, a deer ran into our brand-new Subaru while I was driving along a dark stretch of road no more than three minutes from our house. No one was hurt—though I’m sure the collision didn’t do the deer any good—and I was able to drive home. At midnight, Keith and I picked up Alex at the train station in HIS old Subaru; the train had been delayed four hours. Many people never made it to their Christmas destinations. Thankfully we seven were safely together. But then on Christmas Eve day, we lost power. Thank goodness for the whole house backup generator and the electric company arriving in the wee hours of Christmas Day. Santa Claus came despite the bitter cold. With the Big Green Egg iced shut, we cooked the turkey in the oven. On Monday—still a holiday—the temperature rose, and everyone travelled home. I filed a claim with our car insurance company, washed bedsheets and towels, and made turkey soup. The next day, I contacted the body shop to get the new Subaru towed. Yes, we made it through December okay, but gratitude made our Christmas a holiday.
When I was a child, I experienced a Christmas so mired in bad energy that I'm sure it was the beginning of my stepping away from established Western holidays, even if I didn't consciously realize it at the time. I was at my auntie's house, where all the big celebrations on my dad's side of the family happened every year. It was Christmas day, and everyone was arguing about gifts they wanted but didn't get.
There were tears and angry retorts from parents who felt as if they were failing as parents and tears from my cousins, who could pick up on the bad energy even if they weren't part of the arguments. I mostly hid away from all the chaos.
For years, I haven't really celebrated Christmas or much of any other holidays except for Halloween and Thanksgiving. And even for Thanksgiving, it's mostly Friendsgiving I care about. It's been years since family has given me gifts, nor do I expect it.
These days, I try to make sure to put aside time every month to experience holiday living in a way that doesn't devolve into tears or arguments, in ways that make me and my loved ones most feel alive.
Holiday by the Bee Gees, released in 1967. "Oh, you're a holiday...every day such a holiday." Why did the brothers Gibb sound so sad when they sang this song? "Holiday, celebrate," sang Madonna in a tune that forty years later still makes us want to dance. In the 1953 film Roman Holiday, Audrey Hepburn plays a royal pretending to be a commoner. Her character takes a holiday from the pressures of privilege. Judy Tuvim, a Jewish actress from the 1940's, changed her last name to Holliday at the insistence of the studio. (Tuvim means holiday in Yiddish.) Holy days. Easter. Christmas. Days off to remember. Days off to forget.
I’m on summer vacation now. It is really a staycation, a playcation. We’re staying home because our dog is too old for us to board him or take him with us, and also because we are lucky enough to live in ‘vacationland’, here in Maine, and that may be why neither of us has an urge to go anywhere else. A few weeks with enough time every day to do the wonderful outdoor summer Maine things we love to do. So we sail in our little daysailer when the wind is right, play pickleball with friends most days, ride our bikes, swim at a nearby pond when its warm enough, take our time grilling and otherwise preparing the tasty zuchinni, lettuce and tomatoes from David’s garden. I feel ridiculously privileged. And guilty. We see the photos of the people in Maui who lost everthing. We see people in boats bringing food to the residents while we in our sailboat are learning to work with the wind, to not get too scared when we heel, to let out the sail, reef the jib and just glide through the bay. We do it just for the fun of it. Making time for playtime in life, maybe that’s OK too. We are lucky to have the time, the health, the places, the friends, the common interests. It is what I wish for my patients, neurodivergent kids and their families. To have time to enjoy, to enjoy doing something together, to enjoy your people. And then also do things to help others. One doesn’t preclude the other.
I love Christmas. My husband never did, but in the 8 years we've been together, he's warmed to it. “You keep Christmas very well,” he says and I believe he means I make it a joyful time of year to which he now looks forward. In my childhood home we cut down a tree on our property the morning of Christmas Eve and spent the evening laughing, reminiscing, & nibbling while decorating the tree and listening to carols or holiday films. Friends were always welcome. One particular friend spent Christmas day with us several years, all in our pajamas, and he would read to us from his latest book of essays. Here in England, in my own home, we still focus on the experience and the people, embracing the concept of Hygge, inviting those who find it a difficult time, lighting candles, keeping the house cosy, delivering fresh baked cookies to local, hard working shopkeepers, rotating through our offbeat collection of records and dvds while sipping on mulled wine. Because he insists that we observe the tradition of taking the tree down on Twelfth Night, we bring one home the first few days of December so we have a full month of all the trimmings. “Holiday” always makes me think about Christmas and every time I get a little excited.
In high school, I got the grades so I could have the freedom. I was 17, a senior in high school, intent on joining my friends (a motley crew of college students) on their way to Mardi Gras in New Orleans. Fortunately, my parents were supportive and encouraging. They talked to the principal; a deal was worked out. My only requirement: a 10-page report on the experience in exchange for a week of missed school. I jumped at the opportunity. We drove 15 hours south from Iowa and arrived in the Big Easy ready to party. It was a week of debauchery throughout the streets of the French Quarter. I documented, keeping a fine eye on my surroundings. Colorful street costumes, live jazz, brass bands, jambalaya, exotic sights and smells, all material for the paper I would later lay on the desk of my English teacher. Mission accomplished. I learned invaluable life lessons, more in those few days than any small-town school could have taught.
December was going along fine. The old Subaru passed inspection so we could give the car to our son Alex, a friend launched her first book, I received not one but two book offers, and we bought a new Subaru. Santa Claus was coming to town! But as the Christmas holiday approached, Merle Haggard’s “If we make it through December” seemed a more appropriate theme song. Cold rain began to fall on Wednesday afternoon the 21st, while my daughter was driving with our granddaughter to spend the holidays with us. A six-hour drive took eight. Thursday morning brought freezing rain and ice then more cold rain and wind. That afternoon, my son and his partner experienced delays when they flew from LaGuardia to Charlottesville. Then on Friday evening the 23rd, a deer ran into our brand-new Subaru while I was driving along a dark stretch of road no more than three minutes from our house. No one was hurt—though I’m sure the collision didn’t do the deer any good—and I was able to drive home. At midnight, Keith and I picked up Alex at the train station in HIS old Subaru; the train had been delayed four hours. Many people never made it to their Christmas destinations. Thankfully we seven were safely together. But then on Christmas Eve day, we lost power. Thank goodness for the whole house backup generator and the electric company arriving in the wee hours of Christmas Day. Santa Claus came despite the bitter cold. With the Big Green Egg iced shut, we cooked the turkey in the oven. On Monday—still a holiday—the temperature rose, and everyone travelled home. I filed a claim with our car insurance company, washed bedsheets and towels, and made turkey soup. The next day, I contacted the body shop to get the new Subaru towed. Yes, we made it through December okay, but gratitude made our Christmas a holiday.
When I was a child, I experienced a Christmas so mired in bad energy that I'm sure it was the beginning of my stepping away from established Western holidays, even if I didn't consciously realize it at the time. I was at my auntie's house, where all the big celebrations on my dad's side of the family happened every year. It was Christmas day, and everyone was arguing about gifts they wanted but didn't get.
There were tears and angry retorts from parents who felt as if they were failing as parents and tears from my cousins, who could pick up on the bad energy even if they weren't part of the arguments. I mostly hid away from all the chaos.
For years, I haven't really celebrated Christmas or much of any other holidays except for Halloween and Thanksgiving. And even for Thanksgiving, it's mostly Friendsgiving I care about. It's been years since family has given me gifts, nor do I expect it.
These days, I try to make sure to put aside time every month to experience holiday living in a way that doesn't devolve into tears or arguments, in ways that make me and my loved ones most feel alive.
Holiday by the Bee Gees, released in 1967. "Oh, you're a holiday...every day such a holiday." Why did the brothers Gibb sound so sad when they sang this song? "Holiday, celebrate," sang Madonna in a tune that forty years later still makes us want to dance. In the 1953 film Roman Holiday, Audrey Hepburn plays a royal pretending to be a commoner. Her character takes a holiday from the pressures of privilege. Judy Tuvim, a Jewish actress from the 1940's, changed her last name to Holliday at the insistence of the studio. (Tuvim means holiday in Yiddish.) Holy days. Easter. Christmas. Days off to remember. Days off to forget.
I’m on summer vacation now. It is really a staycation, a playcation. We’re staying home because our dog is too old for us to board him or take him with us, and also because we are lucky enough to live in ‘vacationland’, here in Maine, and that may be why neither of us has an urge to go anywhere else. A few weeks with enough time every day to do the wonderful outdoor summer Maine things we love to do. So we sail in our little daysailer when the wind is right, play pickleball with friends most days, ride our bikes, swim at a nearby pond when its warm enough, take our time grilling and otherwise preparing the tasty zuchinni, lettuce and tomatoes from David’s garden. I feel ridiculously privileged. And guilty. We see the photos of the people in Maui who lost everthing. We see people in boats bringing food to the residents while we in our sailboat are learning to work with the wind, to not get too scared when we heel, to let out the sail, reef the jib and just glide through the bay. We do it just for the fun of it. Making time for playtime in life, maybe that’s OK too. We are lucky to have the time, the health, the places, the friends, the common interests. It is what I wish for my patients, neurodivergent kids and their families. To have time to enjoy, to enjoy doing something together, to enjoy your people. And then also do things to help others. One doesn’t preclude the other.
I love Christmas. My husband never did, but in the 8 years we've been together, he's warmed to it. “You keep Christmas very well,” he says and I believe he means I make it a joyful time of year to which he now looks forward. In my childhood home we cut down a tree on our property the morning of Christmas Eve and spent the evening laughing, reminiscing, & nibbling while decorating the tree and listening to carols or holiday films. Friends were always welcome. One particular friend spent Christmas day with us several years, all in our pajamas, and he would read to us from his latest book of essays. Here in England, in my own home, we still focus on the experience and the people, embracing the concept of Hygge, inviting those who find it a difficult time, lighting candles, keeping the house cosy, delivering fresh baked cookies to local, hard working shopkeepers, rotating through our offbeat collection of records and dvds while sipping on mulled wine. Because he insists that we observe the tradition of taking the tree down on Twelfth Night, we bring one home the first few days of December so we have a full month of all the trimmings. “Holiday” always makes me think about Christmas and every time I get a little excited.
In high school, I got the grades so I could have the freedom. I was 17, a senior in high school, intent on joining my friends (a motley crew of college students) on their way to Mardi Gras in New Orleans. Fortunately, my parents were supportive and encouraging. They talked to the principal; a deal was worked out. My only requirement: a 10-page report on the experience in exchange for a week of missed school. I jumped at the opportunity. We drove 15 hours south from Iowa and arrived in the Big Easy ready to party. It was a week of debauchery throughout the streets of the French Quarter. I documented, keeping a fine eye on my surroundings. Colorful street costumes, live jazz, brass bands, jambalaya, exotic sights and smells, all material for the paper I would later lay on the desk of my English teacher. Mission accomplished. I learned invaluable life lessons, more in those few days than any small-town school could have taught.