December 25

I started writing this as a note to a friend, which became a letter, which became almost an essay:

I feel like I’ve been waiting in a kind of zombie state for Christmas to come and go. As if nothing can really happen until Christmas is over, and then my life will begin again.

It’s not like Christmas is a big deal in the Carbary-Taylor household. This is probably my fault, because I don’t want it to be a big deal. I’m more of a Solstice-celebrating born-again pagan than a recovering one-day-a-year Catholic, anyway. I get a spiritual sense when I feel the wind on my face and dancing through my hair much more than I do when I’m sitting through mass. Yes, walking into a church does get to me still, and I admit I do the holy water thing and even consider going to confession, but really it’s only because I always feel so guilty. What better religion for the guilty than Catholicism? If I still believed in it, I could head to confession, get a few prayers and tasks from Father Joe, and live the rest of the day content that I was taking care of spiritual business.

My mixed up jumble of a religion that I’ve fallen into is much more “fun” for the guilty-loving. I believe in karma and what goes around comes around. You have to be good for good things to come to you. It’s just as important to give a Starbuck’s card to the homeless guy that you see every day as it is to give one to the mail carrier. Do unto others and all that. As you can see, this guilty paganism has a downside, too. If bad things are happening to me, did I somehow ask for it—deserve it, even?

I can believe this in an abstract sense, but when you apply it to my own life, or more accurately, to the lives of the people I love, it just doesn’t seem right. In fact, it seems crappy. Why should my husband be mugged? He stopped to give the guys directions, to be helpful to them, and they mugged him. Why is my mother sick? She’s spent her entire life taking care of others. I don’t think she’s ever intentionally been bad to anyone. Definitely not at the level to give her the retribution of a confusing and unknown ailment. I can’t believe that everyone living in New Orleans is somehow bad, and that’s why they suffered so much this autumn. Or that regular people on the other side of the globe did anything to deserve living in fear of suicide bombers. Or even that my little sister deserved to be kicked out of her apartment by a crazy roommate.

So then I have to twist my idea of karma, and think that it falls into the category of “what doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger.” Or, maybe it’s just that we’re filling our karma banks for when we really need something good to happen. Maybe these bad things happen so that someone else can do good. I can’t even count the number of times strangers have helped my mother. I think about the people who happened to own boats, going from rooftop to rooftop in New Orleans, picking people up and taking them to safety. People taking entire families into their homes, donating so much money, clothes, supplies to the Red Cross and other charities, even getting in their cars and driving south, hoping to help. Is tragedy created by some force, even some force within ourselves, so that we can shine in dealing with it? So that someone can do good? If there was no tragedy, would there be no good, no people trying to help, trying to be kind, trying to reach out to their fellow humans?

Maybe so. I’m just speculating.

The so-called Christmas season is supposed to be about being good to one another, and a lot of people do use this time of year to donate food, clothes and money to food banks and other charities. Food drives abound. Even the dentist’s office near our house had a food donation bin. As I write this, at least one of our neighborhood’s homeless guys is getting his hot Christmas dinner at a local church. (I know that Will is, because he told me his holiday plans.) Today there are also hundreds of masses to choose from, if you’d like to go to church and be Christian for the day. (I recommend the services at St. James Cathedral—the Nativity scene can’t be beat.) All around the city there are happy families sitting down together, opening presents and catching up and feasting on love and turkey.

I know that there are unhappy families sitting down to dinner too, pretending to be happy, maybe, or maybe they’ve just given up totally and are only going through the motions. There are alcoholic fathers that you have to keep an eye on, so they don’t drink too much too early and let their split personality come out too soon. There are uncles that you hope won’t stop by. There are brothers in rehab or jail, so they can’t be there today. There are grandmothers and grandfathers who won’t stop fighting. Mothers who find fault with their children. Sisters who need a little hit of something to make it through the day. Aunts who shine in their superior perfection. Daughters trying to get everyone to get along. And tiny children who are actually picking up on everything going on around them, much more than anyone could ever guess. Shyly sponging it all up inside of them, sneakily taking more than their share of guilt, but refusing a second serving of mashed potatoes.

For those kids, there’s no karma. No falling asleep so Santa can whisk them away to a magical land where all is well. They have to learn how to make “all is well” for themselves. They learn how to take care of themselves.

Yeah, December has always been hard on me. It’s a month to be lived through. I’ve gotten to the point where I realize this, so at least I don’t think that I’m some kind of a freak in not liking the shopping, the carolers, the overdecorative window displays. Yes, of course sometimes I feel guilty at not liking it, but my difficulties with December combined with working retail at Christmas more adult years than not has made me have to accept that I’m not too interested in Christmas. I love giving gifts, but you know what? I love giving them anytime I please. When I was younger, I loved getting gifts, but as I’ve gotten older I’ve realized that the things I can give myself are much more valuable than a bottle of perfume or a scented basked of fancy soaps.

Right now, I’m working on allowing myself to have a nice day off on Christmas Day. If it doesn’t rain, I’m going for a walk with my wonderful husband. Maybe I’ll draw some in my sketchbook. Then we’re going to watch DVDs of Buffy and Star Wars. I think we’ll have lots of hard cider and wine and cookies. We won’t be going to my parent’s house. I love them dearly; I love my family so much that it hurts, but if they love me they need to learn to understand that I am trying to take care of myself here. There are many times that I have, and will continue to, do things for them for THEM, but today has to be my gift to myself.

Yeah. Merry Christmas.