Several years ago, I adopted the word “melancholy” to describe my holiday cheer, or lack thereof. At that time, I couldn’t adequately explain my mixed feelings about Christmas; melancholy just seemed right. For me, it describes when I see beautiful decorations and lights, but my eyes fill with tears. Or when I remember the excitement of Christmas as a child, but am sad that it no longer feels the same. Or when I am surrounded by family at holiday gatherings, but ache from the loss of those who are no longer here.
Murdock was both confused and unimpressed by my Christmas antics. I would drag in a huge tree, put it up, and decorate it while he napped, unfazed. I dressed him in a Christmas scarf and Santa hat and attempted to get the perfect photo of him, repeating the ordeal multiple times as we both grew impatient. I baked treats to give away to the dogs in our life, and let Murdock lick the beaters and have the first taste. One of my very favorite times in all of our years together was a peaceful Christmas morning walk, so early that it was silent save for our feet in the snow. Those memories make me smile that I have them – and sad that they are no longer.
Recently, I heard Billy Bob Thornton put into words what he has felt after the loss of his brother:
“There is a melancholy inside me that never goes away. I’m 50 percent happy and 50 percent sad at any given moment.” He described my feelings, my “melancholy,” in a way I had not been able to. For those who are grieving, holidays (and maybe all days) are a time of straddling the line between joy and sadness; busyness and loneliness; excitement and emptiness. I don’t always succeed in that balancing act; and sometimes, it’s just too hard to try.
For me, holiday traditions make the happy vs. sad seesaw particularly difficult. The annual activities of a joy-filled season also serve to remind us of what is missing. When I bring in my Christmas tree, I can picture Murdock’s indifferent stares that made me laugh. When I pull out his Santa hat, I remember his exasperation at our photo shoots. When I make treats for the neighbor dogs, I don’t have a taste tester. When I pass the lights in my neighbors’ yards, I recall our cold, wintry walks. I treasure the memories. I miss my boy.
And that’s the thing about grief – it is complicated, especially during the holidays. Happiness and sadness co-exist. Memories remind us of the fullness of life, and also the emptiness of loss. We live in the melancholy.
Merry Christmas.
