By Christine Ruth
It’s coming on Christmas/They’re cutting down trees./Putting up reindeer/Singing songs of joy and peace/Oh, I wish I had a river I could skate away on …
I’m so hard to handle/I’m selfish and I’m sad./Now I’ve gone and lost the best baby/That I’ve ever had./Oh, I wish I had a river I could skate away on …
— Lyrics from “River,” by Joni Mitchell and James Taylor
This pain-filled lament from one of my favorite Joni Mitchell songs capture, for me, the “mixed blessing” the holiday seasons can be for many of us. Some of us are all in, relishing the opportunity to decorate, shop, bake and have extra time with loved ones — while others of us deeply wish we “had a river (we) could skate away on.”
While this season’s celebrations are joyful for some, it’s often a time of anxiety and depression for many. As the pace grows hectic, the pressures become demanding. Relationships become strained, and loneliness can deepen.
The cultural expectations that we have about what “makes the season jolly” often leave many of us feeling disappointed, disillusioned and empty. There is an ideal in our head about what the holidays should look or feel like, and oftentimes the changes, the transitions or losses we are grieving can make us feel profoundly alone, like we’re totally “missing the boat.”
There’s a book I’ve appreciated on grief called “The Empty Chair.” It reminds us of the stark reality of the “empty chair” that often confronts us during the holiday season — where dad, mom, a child or a partner used to sit. That chair, when left unacknowledged, can haunt us and drain any meaning and joy from the holidays.
In “The Empty Chair,” the authors compare grief to a firestorm. Some of you remember well the fires that raged through the landscape at Yellowstone National Park a number of years ago. Acres and acres of lush green forests and wooded mountainsides were devoured by rampant flames, reduced to piles of blackened ashes. Deer, bear and elk had all lost their homes and were left scavenging for any sign of life. The barren ground left behind looked completely devoid of beauty, life or hope.
This is the landscape of grief. Death can turn the hopes and dreams of our lives into a desert wasteland. We lose our bearings — the familiar routines in life that once gave us a sense of purpose and joy. We can feel exhausted, afraid and even helpless to find our direction again. It can feel like death has left nothing but ashes in its wake.
But there is hope. There is hope when we acknowledge the pain and share our stories with others who are also struggling. There is hope when we realize that as we go through the grief (we never get over it) we can find healing and a deeper sense of compassion and meaning. I believe that the divine, the universe, is always working, even as we wait, to raise up new life from these ashes. A new power, a new self, a new identity, a new hope is always working to push through the hard, crusty ground — that we might find life again.
Christine Ruth, M.Div, MS, LMFT, is a licensed marriage and family therapist providing individual and couples counseling through the Niwot Counseling Center.
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