Dear Ali,
You know me. Iām a woman of ritual, a serious nostalgic. I like to eat the same Christmas meal every year: my grandmaās potato casserole (cream-of-mushroom soup, tater tots, sour cream) and lefse (a Norwegian flatbread, also made from potatoes, slathered with butter, sugar, and cinnamon). I like to sing carols, and wear a sweater vest with penguins, and watch Jim Carreyās āThe Grinch.ā I like to be up in the mountains, opening gifts from a stocking my great-grandmother knitted, playing cards and bickering with my brother. Novelty? Sure: new jobs, new books, new ideas. Fine. But when it comes to age-old customs, seasonal observances: give me the same thing, again and again.
So what does it mean when traditions canāt happen?
For weeks, Iāve listened to loved ones ask versions of this question. If I spend Christmas alone, does that mean Iām fundamentally solitary? If our gathering is small, does that mean our family is estranged? If we donāt eat honey-glazed ham (the store is out) or if the gifts donāt make it on time (the mail is slow) or if we donāt sing carols (airborne virus) or if our festive phone calls are glum instead of merry: what does that mean about the state of our happiness, the success of our endeavors, the quality of our love?
Perhaps: not that much.
More than most, Iām guilty of making tradition symbolic. Of making everything symbolic. Blame all those English classes, maybe. But I think even more logical people do thisācling to the familiar to tell us that weāre cherished, that weāre part of a collective, that we fit within a past and a future. Our liturgiesāroll a sugar cookie dough, light a candle, hug an auntāmean something precious as they accumulate, year after year. They mark a place in the world thatās ours, imbue us with identity: I do this at this time of year.
Tradition at its worst keeps us from recognizing changesāchildren grown up, grandparents gone. Or it becomes a stand-in for real intimacy. And yet, it also comforts. When all is uncertain, those particular ornaments, stitched or glittering, hung in the right spots, are the same. Itās no wonder weāre all so infuriated that Christmas is different this year: everything else, and now this too?
Still: we have to give ourselves a break. Our inability to enact our traditions just as weād like canāt symbolize isolation, enmity, or failure. Itās just practical; itās just logistical. This is what I tell myself, at least. What does it mean that Jared and I are celebrating the holiday alone together? It means grief, of course. Regret, of course. (All paling in comparison to the grief and regret of people whoāve really suffered this year.) But also: it means that we made a decision. Itās quite simple. We decided to avoid a dirty plane. Now, weāll have a lovely day in an apartment filled with the smells of casserole (Iām not letting that one go) and call the people we love. Find new delights. Be a little sad. Be a little happy. Start again the next day. Love still exists. Itās not on hold for next year, when things are āback to normal.ā But here and now: in the disappointing, the unknown, and the new.
Merry Christmas, my friend. Looking forward to the years to come when we can spend the season together.
Love,
Kate