Posts Tagged ‘holidays and celebrations’
Cindy on November 8th, 2009
Tradition is a guide, not a jailer.” – W. Somerset Maugham
Over dinner with my husband’s brother and his wife last year, my husband and I broached the delicate subject of … The Holidays. I appreciated the chance to have this discussion with my in-laws. Celebrating the winter holidays, after all, is an emotionally loaded topic even among the most cordial and caring families. People-pleasers, especially, get wigged out at the very thought of trying to appease every relative perched on the family tree.
Regardless, the four of us began sharing a few of our favorite memories and traditions — the mother who stuffed the perfect Martha Stewart turkey, the barrel-chested grandpa who played Santa on Christmas Eve; the cookies we decorated with fistfuls of red and green sugar. We agreed that the nostalgic traditions of childhood are vastly different now. And still changing. They no longer involve the proverbial jaunt “over the river 
and through the woods” to Grandma’s house. Our grandparents all reside in cemeteries now, and our kids are making nests of their own.
Complicating the mix, our extended families keep extending – which makes it impossible to fit everyone around the same dining room table, even with an extra leaf in place.
One solution was to meet in smaller numbers on ordinary evenings, just as we’d done that night. Why wait for a major holiday to be a family? There, at a cozy Italian restaurant in Troy, the four of us were enjoying a rare opportunity to share what was on our minds and in our hearts. No other gifts required.
Not long after, I talked with a grieving friend who lost her mother and is struggling with a different holiday dilemma. As the eldest daughter, she inherited the tradition of hosting a Christmas Eve dinner that typically included up to 30 guests. As my friend explained, her mother was “a generous cook” who’d invite every known relative within reasonable driving distance, plus a few stray neighbors and friends who had no other plans for the evening.
“Having the house crammed with people was my mother’s idea of a perfect holiday,” my friend said. “I feel guilty, but my house is smaller, and I’d much rather have a quiet celebration.” So my friend decided to trim her guest list to a manageable 14. To honor her late mother’s memory, her siblings will bring a favorite family dish to the potluck.
Tradition is a good thing when it keeps us connected to people and places we love. It’s the essential ingredient in our most treasured family recipes. Baking shortbread, for instance, is a comforting ritual that links me to my Scottish ancestors, and it’s the only time I use pounds of real butter without flinching.
But tradition is not a good thing when it’s a futile taskmaster.
“It is my opinion that Norman Rockwell and his ilk have done more to make already anxious people feel guilty than anyone else,” wrote the late Gourmet magazine columnist Laurie Colwin. “The fact is, family is variable, but our stereotypical image of it is not.”
For the record, the family life of Norman Rockwell, “America’s painter,” was colored by three unhappy marriages, including one to a long-suffering alcoholic.
All said and done, we can’t possibly replicate our nostalgic past, nor should we feel obligated to remain frozen in someone else’s sugarcoated holiday vision. Ideally, we can combine the best of both worlds – the cherished recipes and rituals we’ve inherited, along with a few newer customs that have meaning to us.
As we mature, we’ll likely have to negotiate some holiday changes with our families. This might require that we welcome a sibling’s new spouse and step kids, or a gay cousin’s partner, to the table. We might have to learn how to bake our mother-in-law’s pumpkin pie from scratch. Or, we might decide to throw in the dishtowel, turn off the oven, and host the whole flock at the local diner. Meanwhile, I’ve decided to relax and count my blessings — which include several festive restaurants within a three-mile radius of home. Here’s to a happy, stress-free holiday season for every woman! — Cindy La Ferle
– This essay originally appeared in Strut magazine–
Cindy on February 22nd, 2009
Waiting is the yeasting of the human soul. — Sue Monk Kidd
One of my favorite traditions at our local church is the silent meditation service held during the Lenten season. The midweek candlelit service is organized by church members, and sometimes an organist provides soulful background music.
The service is offered during Lent because it is, as T.S. Eliot wrote in his poem, Ash Wednesday, “a time of tension between dying and birth.” It is the perfect opportunity for reflection; a time to meditate on the fearsome darkness of the tomb and the pending miracle of Easter.
While a silent service is simple enough to plan, it isn’t as easy to carry out. Few of us are comfortable “being still” in a sanctuary with other people sitting near us. We expect to be enlightened, educated, entertained, preached to, or otherwise distracted from the white noise in our heads. Meditation makes us fidgety.
As Sue Monk Kidd notes in her midlife memoir, When the Heart Waits: Spiritual Direction for Life’s Sacred Questions, one of the guiding principles of American culture is “All lines must keep moving.” Even when we’re home alone, we rush to fill the void with mindless activity or television. Kidd says we resist getting quiet because we’re afraid to confront our own darkness.
Yet real miracles occur during moments of being still – and waiting in the dark. Spring bulbs do their hardest labor underground before blooming. Our minds sort out conflicts in dreams while we’re sleeping. Likewise, the work of spiritual growth and healing is done in silence.
The time I woke up alone in a dark hospital room immediately comes to mind.
It was just past midnight, a few hours after my second hip-replacement surgery. Barely conscious, I awoke to discover my legs were strapped to a large foam wedge to keep me from moving. While I realized this was essential to my recovery, I still felt trapped and terrified. Equally scary was the sensation of waking up alone in a strange room. (I didn’t recall being wheeled in after surgery.) And while most hospitals are buzzing with activity during the day and evening, the earliest hours of the morning are eerily quiet.
Breaking the silence, I shouted for help and pushed every button within reach. It was the first time I’d experienced a full-blown panic attack. When my nurse arrived, she explained that my panic was probably triggered by withdrawal from the anesthesia. She promised to check back periodically. Meanwhile, I kept a light on above my bed. Afraid to fall asleep, I kept vigil until daybreak.
By the time the sun rose, my drug-induced paranoia had worn off, and I accepted my temporary state of immobility. And in a luminous moment of grace, I suddenly knew I’d been given a second chance. I knew that I would heal and walk again. It would take time, but everything would be okay. And it was. Three days later, I was released early from the hospital to recover in bed at home.
A week before that last surgery, my friend Jenny had sent me a note of encouragement, which included a quote by Patrick Overton. Here’s how it begins:
When you come to the edge of all the light you have and must take a step into the darkness of the unknown, believe that one of two things will happen to you: Either there will be something solid for you to stand on, or, you will be taught how to fly.
I’ve posted that quote where I can see it on my desk every day. It’s the one I like to remember when I’m stumbling in the dark or feeling stuck — or waiting impatiently for a new season to begin. — Cindy La Ferle
–This essay appeared in slightly different form in The Daily Tribune (Royal Oak, MI) and is included in my essay collection, Writing Home–
Cindy on June 14th, 2008
“It’s a funny thing about life. If you refuse to accept anything but the best, you very often get it.” – Somerset Maugham
“Oh look, you’re using your good china,” my mom said as we gathered at my table for dinner. The winter holidays were long past and there were no anniversaries or birthdays to toast, which is why Mom was so surprised to see my grandmother’s gold-rimmed dishes and goblets gleaming by candlelight on an otherwise ordinary evening.
I’m not by nature a fussy hostess, and excessive formality makes me nervous. Over the years, my mother and other family members have gotten used to being served on casual ceramic dinnerware – or even on leftover paper plates stamped with birthday balloons and purple dinosaurs.
So why the fine china? I think it’s because I’m getting philosophical in my middle age. Why save my best dinnerware for company or so-called special occasions? Doesn’t my family deserve to enjoy the nicest things we own?
Likewise, I often wonder why we reserve our “good clothes” for special occasions. If you’re like me, you have at least one terrific outfit you’re saving for a time when you’ll be invited to some momentous affair — maybe a banquet at the White House or a reception at the Vatican. Outfits like this droop on their hangers, unworn for years, until they go out of style and end up at a local resale shop. Meanwhile, we spend most of our time in sloppy jeans and sweats. After all, our best friends and family love us as we are, and it isn’t as if Harrison Ford is going to ring the doorbell.
You’ve doubtless heard the popular catchphrase, “Life isn’t a dress rehearsal,” which is printed on everything from inspirational posters to shopping bags. But there’s poignant truth in it. Good china and candles aren’t just for fancy dinner parties: We should use them to honor and brighten our everyday meals. And we ought to at least try to look nice for the people whose homes and lives we share. There’s little merit in saving our best for a precious event that might never happen.
This occurred to me last week when I reorganized my files and found an old birthday card I’d purchased for my dad (and quickly forgotten) not long before he died. “I’m so glad you’re my father,” it began in sentimental, greeting-card prose. Because I missed the chance to give that card to my dad, it has remained unsigned in a drawer for several years. But I still can’t manage to throw it away.
While browsing in an antiques shop recently, I found a charming Quimper plate that would fit perfectly in my mother’s collection. (Had I been looking for it, of course, it wouldn’t have been there.) So I bought it on the spot, knowing full well that I wasn’t going to save it for her birthday or Mother’s Day. Those occasions seemed too far off in the nebulous future, and I wanted Mom to enjoy her gift right away. Later that afternoon, I drove to her house and gave her the plate – without ceremony, wrapping, or ribbon.
It could have been just another uneventful Saturday on my calendar. But it felt like a real celebration. – Cindy La Ferle
__________________________
This essay was originally published in Mary Engelbreit’s Home Companion and is included my newest essay collection, Writing Home, distributed to bookstores by Wayne State University Press and available on Amazon.com
