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The holiday season begins with a thud here in my little world. It is the first Thanksgiving without my mother, and as it approaches, I feel adrift. Where will I go, now that I no longer need to join her for turkey at the nursing home? I feel grief: I miss her and will miss the beautiful drive across upstate New York, but I am pretty sure I won’t miss the tension and sadness of sitting with familiar elders who are, in the words of the British sitcom, “Waiting for God.”
And sure enough, I don’t—instead, I create my own anxiety and sadness. I do what I always do when I’m adrift, anxious, and alone. I load up my schedule because being busy keeps depression away. Or so I think.
I wait to see if my close friends are having their usual Thanksgiving gathering, but this year they are going to see family, so that’s out. I accept an invitation to another friend’s big family bash, where the food will be fabulous, most of the family won’t remember that they’ve met me six or seven times, and I’ll have a chance to talk with my friend and her children, and observe the larger family dynamics, as we eat. I’ll also lend a hand with the dishes, bring a couple of folding chairs and a bottle of wine, and be my friendly, easy-going self.
My church is having a dish-to-pass after the ecumenical Thanksgiving service, and I sign up for it since it will be at noon and my friend’s dinner is at 4:30. I offer to bring mashed potatoes, lots and lots of mashed potatoes, since one can never have too many. I’ll enjoy the chance to share a meal with other people who are separated from family and feeling lonely. I’m learning how to navigate being solitary in a church full of families, and this will be a good opportunity to see who else is on their own. I’m surprised to realize that I really look forward to this dinner, and I’m almost sorry that I accepted the kind invitation to the big bash. But I can do both. Or so I think.
Then comes not one but two upheavals: my close friend Margaret’s plans change and, on the spot, I offer to cook Thanksgiving dinner at noon, relinquishing my plan to participate in the dinner at church. And almost immediately, I get a call from the friend who is hosting the bash, letting me know that the time has changed from 4:30 to 1:30. I feel frustrated, but with a little finagling, I think, I can still do both.
I announce to Margaret that our dinner will need to be at 5:30 rather than noon, and I offer to provide the mounds of mashed potatoes to the church dinner even though I won’t be there to eat—the offer is accepted with alacrity, and I am gratified that my help is needed. I buy the food for Margaret’s dinner, gulping at the cost, and make a plan to prepare and transport the food to church and to her home in time to get to the bash at 1:30. Easy-peasy.
I see therapy clients on Wednesday, and am a little too tired to peel and mash ten pounds of potatoes. I decide I can relinquish the church service and just drop off the potatoes while the service is going on; I leave all the prep for Thursday morning. I can do it.
Perhaps a little concerned about how long all the prep might take, I have insomnia and get up at 2:30 a.m. and start peeling potatoes. I get them, and the other preparations, done in ample time. I consider going back to bed around 8:30 before delivering everything, but realize that if I stay up, I could deliver the food to Margaret and go to the church service at 10:30, before going off to the bash and on to Margaret’s dinner. In the house that Jack built, my brain begins to sputter. But I know I can do it.
And I do: I drop off potatoes, stuffing, gravy, green bean casserole, cranberry sauce, sparkling cider, and a turkey with Margaret, where I notice that my ministrations are rather coolly received. I have brought lattes to share, but am not invited to stay. I feel very odd, uncomfortable, hurt. I’ve done a lot of work to get this dinner prepared. A flicker of worry flares in me: what have I done wrong? On the way to church, sipping my super-sweet latte, I come up with several possibilities, several failures in myself. Perhaps I didn’t do enough, perhaps I was too bossy about bringing the food, perhaps it is too hard for Margaret to cook the turkey. The communication sure isn't working right now.
I get to church in time to put the potatoes in the oven to stay warm. I am told by the church supper organizer that someone else has brought a whole lot of mashed potatoes. “She didn’t sign up,” Ellen says ruefully. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know.” “Okay,” I say slowly, ignoring my brief flare of resentment. “Maybe people can take some home. I have more than I need.” She nods, but her face reflects regret. Perhaps she sees something in my face, something I’m not letting myself feel.
I leave the kitchen and go into the sanctuary, where I sit alone in a pew listening to the prelude, an assortment of Thanksgiving hymns. I notice who is there: three or four families with children, half a dozen women from a group home, a Catholic priest from the local monastery, the Episcopal rector, our minister, and about 30 people who are alone. Most of us are middle-aged, well-adjusted, active members of the church. As the service proceeds, I notice that almost all of us singles wipe our eyes with handkerchiefs or Kleenex at various points.
For me, the hanky comes out first in the middle of the welcome: “We welcome those of you who need to be away from family, and those of you who have lost family.” Mom, Mom, my heart beats, and my eyes fill. For others, it’s the responsive reading of Psalm 100, or the old hymn, “We gather together.” Tears come again for me when we read together, “Let us open our hearts that we might surprise ourselves with generosity of spirit and boundless affection for even those we do not know.” I try to live with an open heart and generosity of spirit, but today that heart feels a bit banged up.
I go to the bash and have a pleasant time. But I’m anxious about going to Margaret’s. I don’t know what’s going on there, and I am fearful that I have hurt her somehow. When I arrive, we act as if nothing is amiss. I notice that the table hasn’t been set, and we eat informally in the living room—comfortable and familial, but not the usual thing with us at a holiday meal. I leave quite soon after dinner, making sure to leave leftovers and thanking her for cooking the turkey. I cry on the way home, confused and full of self-blame. I wonder what I did or said that led to the distance between us. I didn’t do the right thing, or I didn’t do enough.
By the time I get to bed, the weight of the day is oppressive. I fall asleep thinking about the beautiful simplicity of the table set for the church dinner. It looked so peaceful.
Eventually, I learn what caused the rift: I was too busy. Margaret felt second-best, put aside. My first thought is defensive: If you only knew what I did to make this dinner for you! But remembering that she was ill and vulnerable herself, I take a few deep breaths, let down those defenses, and acknowledge that she is right: I am too busy. I was so busy that I wasn't able to be fully present with anyone, including myself.
It occurs to me that my focus on making the food, on the need to provide mashed potatoes, for example, took my attention away from the more important thing: the relationships in each place. Rather than worrying about food, I could have done what I did in the brief, wonderful moments during the church service: I could have been in the moment, quiet, reflective. As I think about that experience, my body relaxes.
As another holiday approaches, I'm aware that I need to slow down. I want to be able to open my heart to myself as well as to others, not simply react in response to my perception of other people’s needs. This time I will listen to that voice within, the one that whispers, “I need some quiet time to myself in order to be truly present with others.” Without that, there's only mashed potatoes.
