Excerpt
from the chapter WHY AM I STUCK?
How
Can I Let Go If I Don't Know I'm Holding On?
Epigraph:
"To
live in this world you must be able to do three things:
to love what is mortal,
to hold it against your bones knowing your own life depends on it; and when the
time comes, to let it go, to let it go."
Mary
Oliver
I was determined to get it right this time. As I carried the tiny artificial Christmas
tree into the motel room, I realized my work was cut out for me. The space looked
drab, lifeless, utilitarian. Maybe David's and Harrison's favorite ornaments,
packed away in the boxes I lugged inside, would provide a familiar touch, a heart
connection to the poignant past. I had hauled them all the way from Texas to Tennessee
in a fervent effort to bring some nostalgic merriment to our Christmas dinner
and gift giving. Come to think of it, it wasn't even Christmas Day yet. It was
a full five days ahead, but the only time that could be wedged into the competing
schedules of a divorced family.
It
was a far cry from the Currier and Ives celebrations enshrined in my memory .
During those early years, our Tennessee home had been the center of yuletide gatherings---neighborhood
caroling parties, large family reunions, holiday songfests around the player piano,
and always the Christmas Eve family communion service at the church. I was determined
to re-create the atmosphere, if not the reality, of those happy holiday occasions,
even within the boundaries of shared custody agreements. Eight years before, I
had reluctantly given up the marriage, but not the memories.
David
and Harrison, then twenty-two and seventeen, had become accustomed to the Christmas
chaos during the four years since I had moved to Dallas . It had become a frustrating
problem in logistics for all of us, but especially for the boys, pulled hither
and yon by the needy love of friends and relatives from two families. Though I
tried to be especially sensitive to their discomfort, the truth was that I was
also one of the needy ones, maybe the most needy. This year it was their father's
turn to be with the boys on December 25th, but I told myself that it didn't really
matter. I would simply summon extra effort and creativity and invent a festive
environment. I could produce it like a play, choreographing every scene. So I
purchased the best chicken dinners that Colonel Sanders had to offer, placed them
on seasonal holly-printed paper plates and lit the candles. Our time together
would be a bonafide Merry Christmas, no matter the makeshift location.
Well,
this Christmas concoction in the motel suite was anything but merry. Despite everyone's
best efforts, the gathering felt contrived, stilted, phony. We hid behind plastic
smiles that said "We're going to pretend this is fun!!" It was
as if we were burying---one more time--- that recurrent sadness and disappointment
and yearning for yuletides past. But deep down the evening felt, at least to me,
like just one more thing to get through, another item to be checked off the holiday
list.
Year after
year, I had been inventing new activities and trying desperately to follow the
advice in the blended family books: "Create new holiday habits!" But
my bag of magic tricks was just about empty. I was emotionally exhausted from
the effort to produce the perfect substitute Christmas for my children. My stubborn
holding-on to unrealistic expectations had me stuck. Something had to change.
I had to let go of my illusion that by sheer force of will and creativity, I could
make everything okay for my sons, not to mention myself. Little did I realize
that my desperation was leading me into unfamiliar territory---the land of letting
go. I didn't know what I was in for.
