Looking for Light

LOOKING FOR LIGHT

 

Two shopping days till Christmas

and I set aside my list for the quiet

gallery: a little Fra Angelico nativity

I’ve always loved.

I want to imagine him, palette in hand,

brush dripping with Byzantine blue sky

the delicate pink of angel wings,

I want to see stars, light, hay, flesh itself

living, breathing—everything made

of his great faith. 

 

But all I see is Mary and Joseph

not looking at each other,

not looking at the newborn child.

There’s just half an angel on the mountain,

the cow is a yellow lump,

the mouth of the cave papier mache,

the sheltering lean-to looks like a carport.

 

Just a predella, never meant

for such scrutiny, I know—

still, I had counted on its comfort,

hoped it might transport me

 To Italy, where I was happy,

to the museum at San Marco—

room after room of Beato Angelico

and the monks’ quarters above--

 

Each tiny cell frescoed by the Master

its own world, each door opening

onto a wide, whitewashed corridor

drenched in light, guarded by angels.

This is an old poem of mine, from the time when everything about the Christmas season spiraled me down, down, down until I got to the actual day, practically catatonic. It would start in October, when the first Christmas displays began to appear in stores, double down as Thanksgiving approached, the last barrier to putting up a tree, decorating the house, and shopping, shopping, shopping, shopping, shopping.

Anxiety that I hadn’t found the perfect gifts. Anxiety about money. Anxiety about not creating cherished Hallmark memories.

I tried cookie-baking over the years, but almost always burnt the cookies and/or myself. Once a friend and fellow teacher called as removing yet another tray of burnt cookies from the oven and apologized profusely before asking “Could you possibly make time to look at a few poems my students wrote? I have no idea how to grade them.”

“Yes! I said. “Bring them over right now!”

It was the death of my Christmas cookie anxiety, thank God. I just didn’t try anymore. (Don’t do what you’re terrible at.) But the anxiety was replaced by guilt for having failed to measure up—

Speaking of which, I felt horribly guilty for being so Bah-Humbug about Christmas. Why couldn’t I just get with the program and fake it? Other people did that all the time. But when I tried, I went way over the top, escalating the anxieties and making myself (and everyone I loved) even more miserable.

Once, I tried the opposite and spent December painting every room in the house. Some rooms required wallpaper scraping before I could paint them, which made my knuckles raw and, I thought, served me right. Probably, my family agreed.

There was deep, deep sadness, too. For parents who didn’t have the means to help Santa bring their kids what they wanted. For the kids, disappointed on Christmas morning.

And anger! I’m not a Christian, why should I be required to celebrate their holy tradition? Why do Christians perpetuate the celebration of money and stuff their holy tradition has become?  

Those dopey bracelets people were wearing for a while come to mind: What would Jesus do?

Not this, for sure.

My Christmas sickness was debilitating and real. At its worst, I asked my beloved yoga teacher if she would please not play Christmas music during our practice because it made me so anxious.

She kindly agreed. More guilt for me, of course. Other people loved practicing to it.

I’m not saying there weren’t many wonderful moments along the way. There were.

I’m thinking of a sleigh ride we took in Michigan one Christmas Eve. The clomp of the horses, sleigh bells tinkling to their rhythm. The dark silhouettes of trees, the sliver of moon, stars tossed upon the black, black sky.

And the time, Christmas caroling, we stopped at a nursing home in our neighborhood and, when a wizened lady held out her arms, my daughter Kate, maybe three, climbed onto her lap.

It’s just, the time between those moments was so hard.

A few years ago, we changed Christmas. Gifts for our two grandchildren, great nieces and nephews, and a few friends we rarely see. A wonderfully ridiculous white elephant gift exchange with the extended family on Christmas night.

It feels miraculous. I can breathe.

I still don’t like the Christmas season (see above). But it doesn’t send me to the depths anymore, for which I am so grateful.

All of which is to say, Happy, Merry, or Hope-You-Get-Through Christmas to you!

Thank you so much for Reading Book Pilgrim!