Gilded Edges

Reality is often given a bad reputation. With good reason ~ especially at this time of the year. The tragedies and traumas that somehow often accompany this time of year are far too harsh. In a season that is filled with glitter and joy, the glitter can feel too brittle and artificial. The joy too inauthentic and worn like a mask. Yet, most of us continue to find our own joys at this time of year, if we can. I can only speak for myself. I can count on the fingers of one hand, the serious tragedies that have occurred at this time of year for me. Each one spaced, almost politely, apart by months or years. However, no less damaging to my heart. Each one creating one more scar. Most of them shared within family or friends. Of course, those that we have lost throughout the year bring their own bitterness to this potentially joyous time. An empty chair at a table, the laughter not heard, the hugs not felt. 

A most unpleasant, to me, phrase is ‘Get in the spirit of the season!’ When my spirit is already at the bottom? To smile is like dragging my face muscles through thick mud. All that being said, I am happy at Christmas time ~ now. Reaching back in to my past, before sadness and grief invaded my life, I found little things. Pretty, sparkly decorations and childhood laughter. Finding the orange at the bottom of my stocking. Getting lost in a Nancy Drew Mystery story. And the music. Oh, the music of the season. As I write this James Taylor is tinkling the ivories just for me. Too bad he’s not here in person, but his beautiful talent gentles my soul. 

Now, I can honour all those that have gone before ~ whether in mid summer or at Christmas time. My all too tight grip on grief has loosened. Never completely let go. A tinge of sadness will always remain, but with gilded edges. A blessing that each one has shared moments in my life, even if only for short times. With each new and extended family member, that person ~ those people ~ are still here in my heart.

“Reality is a sliding door.”

~ Ralph Waldo Emerson