Alone and in the thick of it—I entered Thanksgiving with this typical mindset. A day of feast and family with neither? I had bottles of water lined up in preparation to rehydrate from all the tears I would cry. No amount of new clothes, hairstyles, or nights out with strangers could fix the deluge of tears that would fall.
But they never came. Not one. As much as I hated not being with my kids or doing all the things we always do, I wasn’t even sad.I, Hollis Hartwell, pity party extraordinaire, sought not just joy, but delight.
Even though I was alone.
Even though the day looked anything but traditional.
My happiness felt jarring. Confusing even. Like a single red bulb on a string of white lights. My happiness has no place here, yet here it is just the same.
Are we allowed to feel good while also harboring hurt? A few weeks ago, I would have said absolutely not. Not just on principle but out of the fact sheer agony was too powerful a force in my heart and soul.
But today?
Today my answer is an emphaticyes. We can find reasons to smile even after life has yanked the rug out from under us. Two things can be true: We are allowed to mourn one thing while we celebrate another. Be lost and found. Anticipate the touch of another’s hands while also taking matters into our own.
We are womenand.
Mothersand.
Hurtingand.
I can tell you right now, I don’t want to spend every Thanksgiving alone. I look forward to next year when the kitchen table is a disaster and the sink is overflowing with dirty dishes, but it’s almost as if this tradition sabbatical was needed to force me to learn lessons I wouldn’t have been able to otherwise. My kids will grow up and move away; one day they will spend holidays with other people. That used to make me sad—mourning a future that hasn’t even arrived—but now I feel a sense of capability. I love being surrounded by people and food on the holidays, but now I know I can survive without them.
I can find joy in other ways.
And the jarring presence of joy has led me down a strange rabbit hole of looking for other things that end up in this season which seemingly make no sense.Die Hard, of course, but also the items listed in the familiar song of “The Twelve Days ofChristmas,” a song so seasonally symbolic yet utterly nonsensical. Milkmaids? Geese? Drummers? As strange as the listed items are—as seemingly un-Christmas—they work. Maybe not so different than my own joy in a sad time.
After dissecting it over and over, I took to the internet to learn more about the old English carol and why a true love is delivering these gifts, most specifically the pear tree. It blooms in the spring and bears fruit in the fall—what is it doing in Christmas? And more, what’s its appeal to the partridge? To the lover who brings them?
After research, I found that there are many interpretations of this whimsical gift, but it seems all roads point to it being a symbol of nurturing relationships, generosity, and—wait for it—tradition. Maybe it’s all of these things or maybe it’s none of them, but I decided maybe the mystery of it being there adds to the appeal.
Maybe it’s the beauty of the blossom when it’s in its right time.
Maybe it’s the flavor of the pear or the green of its leaves.
Or, maybe like a ray of sunshine in the midst of the storm, the beauty of the pear tree is, regardless of how little it makes sense, it simply suits the partridge.
Perfectly.
December 7th
Hollis
Jay
Hi.
Hollis
Hi. I don’t see Marv’s number.
Jay
I thought maybe we’d give him a break since you already said you wouldn’t be near him with weapons.
Hollis
So you’re texting me to say hi? How very un-Jay of you.
