It happens every year. I guess I thought this one would be different because I’ve worked so hard that maybe I’d just be grateful for the time off. But the minute I wrapped my assignment and walked out of the NY1 studios today—into the cold rain, admittedly—I felt a rush of sadness that I almost never feel except around what we called Christmas break when I was growing up. That feeling when school let out and I would know I was off the grid, unaccounted for and unsought, until the new year. I look forward to that quiet freedom as an adult–count down the days, even. And then when it arrives I feel an overwhelming loneliness. It’s the downside of living in the interstices of everything, even though that’s how I usually like it. It’s a sense of not belonging to anyone but myself—which, again, is something I usually embrace.
This is the only time of year when I wonder if I’m just making lemonade out of really rotten lemons.
Last year I didn’t feel my feelings until I attended a Christmas Eve service at the East Village’s beautiful-hearted Middle Church. There was something about the kind eyes foisted upon me as we passed the flame in the candle-lighting service that did me in. That’s bullshit, actually. From the minute the preacher began her sermon, from the minute we began singing “Silent Night” as a congregation, from the minute that someone recognized me and I felt ashamed about being alone, I was bawling. They weren’t bad tears, mind you. Actually, I think all tears are good tears. It’s useful to feel the sorrow we’re taught to ignore in our culture; otherwise, it leeches into our systems in ways that serves no one. Continue Reading →
