Yarn of Disappointment

Hello and welcome to the first Saturday of the last month of 2023 here at the Wannaskan Almanac. Today is December 2nd. Does anyone else wonder, "How did we get here so quickly?" when you think about being in the last month of the year? 

The physical being of being in the month of December means that the holiday season is upon us. I'm feeling pretty optimistic this year. The combination of joy and anticipation for winding down the year with my loved ones permeates a warmth through my chest and the kind of feel goods I get when I that that first sip of hot coffee made with my Moka pot. Looking back on this year, I feel pretty amazing; more specifically proud, grateful, and celebrated, like 2023 busted out the pompoms and said, "Lady, this is your year." Looking ahead to 2024 I already have a theme: Light & Bright, like the diffuser scent I created last week during a Thanksgiving I will always remember as being thankful for firsts.

But most of all, I'm feeling relief because this will be the first holiday season in a long time in which I'm not feeling dread. Despite my usual pep and pomp, cheer and goodwill, and overall sunny disposition throughout the year - a butterfly my husband calls me - the holidays aren't entirely a jolly time for me. 

Instead, what typically emerges is a tightly tangled ball of emotions that I'm not quite sure what to do with. I actually like untangling yarn. It's both calming and rewarding, knowing that if I am patient and thoughtful, the mess will turn into a nice single strand of order that I can repurpose into a cute hat or baby sweater. There's a nerdy sense of satisfaction that comes with feeling the smooth slip of the freed yarn through my fingertips as I wind it into a neat ball. 

But the emotion ball that manages to find its way to the top of my yarn stash every December - it usually surfaces when I start thinking about Christmas cards; wondering if I should attempt to send out timely greetings before the holidays, settle on belated wishes for a Happy New Year!, or just throw my hands up in the air and say, "Aw, forget it!" - feels too unruly and tangled to even consider tackling. 

Besides, this yarn ball is a very drabby, unflattering brown that is more fitting for Berber carpet than a knit garment. And it's cheap acrylic instead of a soft wool blend so not nearly as warm or quality. And it looks old, so even if I did take the time to untangle it all, it probably would have lost its elasticity. So with all these justifications plated like yummy little Christmas spritz cookies for not dealing with the mess, I push the whole yarn box away and decide not to knit anything. And the act of "tidying up" produces some flickers of merriment, and I take that as a holiday win.

A few years ago, I read Anne Lamott's "annual Mother’s Day post, ONLY for those of you who dread the holiday, dread having strangers, cashiers and waiters exclaim cheerfully, mindlessly, 'Happy Mother’s Day!' when it is a day that, for whatever reason, makes you feel deeply sad."

It felt so good to have someone say it out loud, "Hey, these holidays stink for some people!", and hold space for those who don't feel comforted, but instead have a whole other set of feels that aren't splashy or will be rewarded with a BOGO offer at retailers near you.

Tomorrow, the season of Advent kicks off. As a practicing Catholic, I enjoy this season because it is about holding one's horses on the merrymaking and preparing one's heart for the upcoming Christmas promise. Each Sunday is a time to light a candle, pray, and reflect on a weekly theme: Hope, Love, Joy and Peace. Starting today, I'd like to offer a different set of themes: Disappointment, Anxiety, Anger, and Grief. 

Taking a page from Anne's book, I invite you to join me to do a little space holding for the less-merry feelings, to pull out that messiest of yarn balls - and maybe not tackle the untangling - but do a little holding. If that's all you've got in you, that's totally okay. If you want to do more, more power to you. If there's just no way that you're going there, no problem. But I'm going to. I'm going to try and see how it goes. I feel so good this year. I know that I have capacity to sit with some of my pain and unravel it. I know that by doing so, it might make me feel better (and clean up my yarn stash) but it also might make me a little more sensitive to others who are not where I'm at. So, let's begin.

Disappointment

There are two holidays I dislike the most and those are my birthday and Christmas. My parents divorced when I was 9 years old. I lived with my mom and visited my dad twice a year - in the summer (my birthday) and in the winter over the holiday break. These biannual treks to my dad's tightened and twisted my stomach with each passing year. Gifting was stressful because each gift said more about what my father didn't know about me than what he did. Mint green pants that didn't fit and sherbet orange tops that were too small when I wore baggy sweatshirts and ripped jeans. Not books, but bangles when I didn't wear jewelry. Not the latest movies I might like to watch, but his steady diet of Andy Griffith, Hogan's Heroes, the History Channel, and televised drag racing. Constant television instead of conversation.

When I was an older and busier teen with a driver's license, I didn't want to make time for the visits that felt more like a performative obligation than a heartfelt gesture of love. The visits devolved into biannual phone calls from my dad. "Happy Birthday," he would say. "Merry Christmas," he'd offer. I didn't feel happy or merry. I felt perpetually disappointed. My father didn't know me. His gifts confirmed it. His lack of words and curiosity about my life told me so. His unwillingness to travel to see me told me that. I shielded my heart against the impending disappointment that would come with each interaction. But disappointment was a sharp spear and usually succeeded in piercing my heart.

While I'm glad to say that, as an adult, my dad and I ultimately did find a way - with lots of tears; lots of tears - to untangle a good portion of that disappointment, the wounding that disappointment caused my heart resurfaces, like an old ache, especially during the holidays. Sometimes I feel like a skittery rabbit, basically fine, but easily startled, which sets off that feeling of disappointment. Even 30 years later, it can happen. It's not jolly. It's a real mood suck. But it also reminds me of my humanity. 

Disappointment slows me down, puts a pause on my daily busy, and compels me to listen to what it has to say. Disappointment used to tell me that my dad didn't love me. That he didn't care enough to pay attention to what I might like as a birthday or Christmas gift. To not get my hopes up because he would not deliver, not only on "the goods," but on the thing I wanted the most - his love.

I know now that my dad did love me and he did so with the capacity that he had. This understanding in itself was profound, complex, and complicated, and added more twists and knots to the yarn. I (still) feel with my child heart occasionally, but today, the gift and tool I have is to I think with my adult head. Today, I see how I put so much expectation on my dad. That I didn't call him. I can't recall a meaningful gift I gave him. That, while a parent has the responsibility to drive the relationship, I, as an adult, can be a more active participant.

Disappoint starts as an emotion but can transform into a choice. I can choose what to do with it. I can journal about the feelings, sit with them and hold them, and let all the loss and sadness wash over me. I can choose to remove expectations from my loved ones around me. I can choose to take ownership of my emotions and my actions. I can choose to pick up the messy ball of yarn, find the tail, and begin the arduous, contemplative, patient journey of gently pulling apart the little loops to reconnect with what I'm sure is a fullness of joy and love waiting to be knit into something beautiful.