Christmas Day

I'm having a lovely Christmas this year. It's the first year since my mum died that I've been able to enjoy Christmas (almost) unreservedly. I nearly went away this year, because I'd been having such a hard time, feeling desperately lonely and bereft, forcing myself to enjoy something that only reminded me of lost childhood happiness. It's not that Christmasses with my mother - especially in the final years of her life - were so great; they were not. They were also characterized by a kind of forced gaiety and what I thought was over-indulgence in both food and gifts, and the burden of preparations fell entirely on me, and it was a strain without a lot of payback. My mother was happy, but I was not. But continuing the traditions was as important to me as it was to her.

Then, after my mum died, I tried to convince myself that I didn't care, that it was only another holiday. But that wasn't true, either. Christmas has always been special, magical. For me, I think Christmas is tied up with my Englishness. My ideal of Christmas is based on remembrances of my early childhood in England, of romanticized versions in books and stories, or Raymond Briggs' Father Christmas and The Snowman and The Jolly Postman and Rumer Godden's The Holly and the Ivy. Even Susan Cooper and Connie Willis have coloured my view of it. It was something I longed for, as I've longed almost all my life to be living in England. It was (English) robins, and little villages with warm lights in the windows and a little church with carol singers singing the old traditional carols. And I had it for much of my childhood, even here in Canada. In my heart, I know this probably doesn't exist even in England any more, and you who live there are probably laughing at my foolishness. But, you know, I read some of your blogs, and it all sounds very familiar, even down to the Queen's speech. And I thought I could continue some of those traditions on my own, but after my mum died, listening to the Queen's speech made me cry. And listening to the lessons and carols from King's College made me cry. And even reading Raymond Briggs made me cry.

But for some reason, this year, I've been able to bring some of those things back into my Christmas. Oh, not the Queen's Speech. Really, I can do without that. But the carols. And the robins. And I've managed (mostly) not to cry. In some ways, it was as if, this year, I gave myself permission not to grieve, or at least to accept that, yes, I was going to feel a little bit sad for a few minutes here and there but that was ok, and it was okay to feel happy the rest of the time. To enjoy those traditions for myself and not for some memory of childhood. And I've almost entirely ignored the hype: I haven't watched TV and have hardly been to the mall. And I cooked a luxurious meal because I wanted to, not because I felt I had to, and invited friends over and we had a lovely evening.

And it was a real, unaffected, unforced pleasure.

And now I have two whole weeks before I have to teach again, and my house is warm and bright and full of good things to eat. And I think I have my Happy Christmas back.