The more closely I pay attention, the more fully I recognize my own life in nature’s seasonal shifts.
One of our town’s holiday traditions is that Santa drives through our neighborhoods in an antique fire truck, waving and passing out candy, announcement sirens alternating with “Here Comes Santa Claus” blaring through the night air.
Last night, as my husband and I were helping our youngest load up his bed to move to his first post-college rental house, Santa’s truck turned onto our street in all its noisy glory. The three of us stopped to wave, yelling “Hi Santa! Merry Christmas!”
Other than our three years living abroad, we have rarely missed this ritual over the past 20+ years. My youngest had taken particular delight in rushing down to the sidewalk or even running after the truck if needed to catch Santa at one of the candy stops.
The sirens and music faded with Santa’s departure, visions of my tiny boy echoing in the void. I stayed rooted in my spot on the driveway. If I didn’t move, maybe I could slow down the progression of time.
What are the chances that Santa would come by at the exact moment that we were helping our son move his bed — the symbol of “home” — from our nest to his own? Nostalgia, gratitude, happiness that he had made it to this milestone, and — yes — grief at the passing of another life chapter all churned into one big brew of emotions.
In my earlier years, I would have choked back my feelings and kept on with the task at hand. But why miss out on this moment of deep feeling? Why rush past this once-in-a-lifetime human experience and its gift of emotional aliveness? I could hold all of it, savor it even, without resistance.
My son asked if I was OK. I burst into tears and we embraced, both of us crying for a minute or two together, before shaking it off with some laughter. I even shook my hands out to extract the rest of the sad energy from my body. Then, having honored the moment, we got back to work, closer and more grateful for all of it than ever.
Photo by erin mckenna on Unsplash
