Crumb

If you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy,
don’t hesitate. Give in to it. There are plenty
of lives and whole towns destroyed or about
to be. We are not wise, and not very often
kind. And much can never be redeemed.
Still, life has some possibility left. Perhaps this
is its way of fighting back, that sometimes
something happens better than all the riches
or power in the world. It could be anything,
but very likely you notice it in the instant
when love begins. Anyway, that’s often the case.
Anyway, whatever it is, don’t be afraid
of its plenty. Joy is not made to be a crumb. 

-Mary Oliver
“Don’t Hesitate” from Swan

Blink, and already 2022 morphs into a caricature, a cliché of life seen through the distorted lens of so-called normalcy. In so many ways, the recent holiday season could have been 2019 or 2018 or 1994. It was precious and heartbreaking at the same time, how determined we were to infuse this holiday with every sentiment of our previous pre-pandemic years. We gave concerts to packed houses, crowded risers with choristers, filled churches with folks hungry for candlelight services and carols. The Sugar Plum fairies danced, the cookies were baked, the bells rang. The lights on our houses and street corners twinkled; the Christmas trees were covered with tinsel and shiny ornaments, baubles and bows; the shops were stuffed with people searching for gifts, or maybe just a glimmer of hope in the madness. Or perhaps both.

Our holiday swerved wildly between all the normal expectations and joys, to circumstances that required us to make lemonade out of the lemons we were given in as many creative ways as possible. There were all the predictable Christmas services and Nutcracker performances, friends and former students home for the holidays, family dinners and celebratory drinks. But the time was bookended by the sudden death of a dear friend and colleague on one end and her memorial service this weekend on the other. I caught a bad cold, which meant cancelling and rearranging planned Christmas lunches, teas and a birthday cocktail party I was throwing for Matt on the 23rd. For several months we had been looking forward to a trip home to Kansas City—our first together in 12 years!—in the days between Christmas and New Year’s, only to be swept up in the Southwest Airline debacle. We ended up driving the 12+ hours, and are glad we did, despite the long boring stretches through southern Kansas. Lemonade, we kept chanting to each other when faced with another obstacle. Making lemonade.

Perhaps this year I had more empty space to ponder the tension (thanks Southwest Airlines!), but every year I struggle internally with the too-muchness of the season. Blinking lights, wine, chocolate, sugar, and the little voice within that confuses what I want with what I need. Forget austerity. Even the practice of moderation feels impossible in December. We are so far away from the historical Advent practices of waiting and anticipation, fasting and preparation that our season is not even recognizable. The problem, I realize, is that I love it all: the dinner parties, the Christmas teas, the feasting and indulging. I love the evening walks to admire the gaudy neighborhood décor. I love the little fairy lights that I strung up last month around my kitchen window and bathroom mirror, and the white lights hanging around the front picture window and the French doors. Deep down, I don’t want to give any of it up. Especially after the darkness of the last few years, I want every evidence of normalcy: the car trunks full of shopping bags, the tables laden with too much food, the holiday open houses and the halls decked.

And yet. Our struggles are not all innocence: chocolate and cookies, too much wine and too much plastic. It seems that in the quest to return to a world we knew, we are not only consuming life faster than ever, collectively we have come back fighting. We are not wise, and not very often kind…The suspicious politics of hatred and fear are worse. The intolerance towards those who seem different and therefore threatening is heightened. The violence and pettiness of our attitudes and behaviors is not kind or forgiving. There are too many people without homes. There are too many hungry children. It is disheartening that after the last few painful years we did not learn the lesson of taking care of one another above all else.

Sometimes this fall when things were the most intense, when we had gone 33 days without a day off, when I couldn’t remember the last free evening we had together, I found myself almost thinking nostalgically about the days of lockdown, when the words “let’s look at our calendars” didn’t give me a panic attack. Perhaps the question isn’t what parts of our lives are back with a vengeance, but what good practices born in the stillness and quiet and solitude during the pandemic we could offer to the future. What practices of mindfulness and attention we could restore to both our literal and spiritual calendars. Still life has some possibility left.

Ultimately, we write our own stories, and live in our own clichés. And we know a world with so much pain and so much joy, both. Perhaps this is our way of fighting back. In our little corner of the universe, we enter another new year with good intentions and humble hearts. Surely we know now how quickly the ordinary can be taken away. Once again, we vow to make our music, and teach our students. We water our garden and feed our cats. We make our lemonade. We light candles and linger over tables with friends. We take walks and ride our bikes and swim our laps. We eat more plants and less meat. We breathe through our yoga poses and return to the meditation cushion. We try to love our neighbors, or at least smile and wave at them. We remind ourselves to be grateful for the busyness. More than anything, we try to pay attention to these precious lives we’ve been given.

Joy is not made to be a crumb. May your 2023 be filled with joy, dear readers.