O Holy Night at 40,000 Feet
I saw a Christmas commercial on TV last week and was reminded they aren’t called commercials for nothing.
Recently, as I flew into the Twin Cities, O Holy Night queued up on my music player and I let it play. I’ve always loved the Christmas holiday; the kid in me wants to revel in the spirit of the season, and yes even a bit of the commercialism.
Last year was my first holiday season away from my immediate family and it was tough, really tough. However, the 2010 holidays seem insurmountable in comparison.
Anxiety starts to wrap its cloying claws around my heart at the thought of Christmas this year, at the thought of not spending it with Mom.
B Here Today. That is my mantra.
Besides it isn’t my intention to write about Christmas. Actually, hearing a Christmas carol and thinking of the holidays reminds me of Mom and how I feel close to her when I think of her. I’m learning to acknowledge and express my grief by writing down my thoughts. These impressions and reminders of her, while heightening my sadness, do cause me to smile a bit. Here are a few:
Observing the autumnal hues from high in the sky–I miss the changing of the seasons;
Having ongoing dental work and wishing I could call her and get that special mom way of making the scared kid in me feel better;
Thinking about how Mom would fall in love with Jazzy, our new dog, how she would get a kick out hearing dog antics stories about her “grand-dog;”
Hearing Dad’s voice, instead of hers, on the answering machine.
I felt an additional tear in my heart when I first heard the new message and realized I was yearning for her voice, her touch, her smile and hug. Just one more time, if I could only have one more of all those things.
The melancholy, the desire for more of her, the gut-wrenching periodic grief, are all normal, I’m told. I’m supposed to simply feel all those things and remember. Her memory will always remain alive in me.