Christmas greetings to everyone! I know I've been absent for a while, but I've been out of sorts lately; feeling blue. The last few months have been busy with dance recitals, birthdays, Thanksgiving and Christmas preparations. One would think I would be bursting with glee and anticipation! I am happy that my parents and uncle are in town, and that my house is bustling with activity and music and good smells and Christmas bells. But I still feel like something is missing . . . Do you ever feel that way around Christmas, now that you're an adult?
I feel so fortunate and lucky to be employed with a well-paying job, and I know I don't do enough for others. Since we don't have kids, I always remind Frank that we should spend a little extra time and money on those that are less fortunate, throughout the year and not just at Christmastime. But I get busy and self-absorbed (I have to write my blog! I have to create our photo Christmas card! I'm getting too old to be in dance recitals!) and thoughts of charity slide unnoticed to the bottom of my "To Do" list.
I did purchase a few goodies for the Toys for Tots donation box located outside my office. Every day I would peek in to see what other folks donated, imagining the joy on a tot's face when he or she received the Build-A-Bear or G.I. Joe. One day I noticed my bag was missing. G.I. Joe and Mr. Bear were still in place, but my bag was gone. After contacting security and being interviewed, it was determined that (to put it not-so-gracefully) . . . someone stole my shit. I was bewildered that my act of charity had turned into someone else's act of larceny. In trying to keep with my humble Buddhist beginnings, I tried to imagine that the thief probably really admired my bag with building blocks and a magician set, and hopefully it was still given to a needy tot. Or they sold my wooden blocks on the black market and scored a nickel bag of grass to help celebrate peace on earth and good will toward men. Ho ho ho.
But my act of "charity" still felt weak and half-assed to me. It reminds me a line from George Michael's Praying For Time (which is a beautiful song - check it out) that goes:
These are the days of the empty hand
Oh, you hold on to what you can
And charity is a coat
You wear twice a year
Charity is a coat you wear twice a year . . . How often have I given a few bags of my unwanted stuff to Goodwill, and tried to feel good about myself? Once I actually made the effort to look up a women's shelter in my area and drive my used clothes to their facility. It made me feel a little better, but I was still slapped in the face with how cozy my life really is. I don't think I should apologize for having a cozy life, and I'm sure as hell grateful for it. But I think I could do better.
A few weeks ago I drove into DC (instead of my usual Metro ride), so I had to run outside and plug the meter every two hours. I saw an expired meter next to mine, so I gave it an extra hour. I felt so good and proud of myself, until I noticed the handicapped permit hanging on the mirror. I'm pretty sure they don't ever have to pay for meters. I had just donated two dollars to the city for no reason at all.
Why doesn't the charity-buzz ever last?
That same week I called a local food shelter, ready to "adopt a family" for Christmas. You buy them all the fixings for a holiday meal and you drop it off at their house. You can meet them in person and see the gratitude in their eyes! I was finally going to get a real high from that charity dope I've heard so much about. I called the center, the receptionist could barely speak English (not so goodly), and I was informed that I was NOT allowed to donate. Say wha'? She said, "You live in wrong zip code. You only donate if you live in Alexandria." Click. Sigh. Buzz kill.
Where's the magical feeling of Christmas?
I watch the news stories about regular people reaching out after disasters, and especially after the recent tragedy in Newtown, CT, and I feel . . . left out. Why didn't I think of driving three states away with my Jeep filled with stuffed bears and casserole? Why didn't I fly to New Jersey after Hurricane Sandy to help with the clean-up or to deliver clean water and hot meals? I don't know . . . I have a full time job and not a lot of vacation. I'm hoarding my vacation time so Frank and I can travel next year. I don't know . . . I would feel weird, like I was just trying to be in the spotlight and look all valiant and amazing with my charity skills. I don't know . . . maybe because I'm scared to look tragedy in the face, stare that bitch down, and realize that I might only get a contact high from being involved in something larger than my faceless, comfortable tot donation.
I'm constantly amazed at the creativity and courage of people on t.v. or on the Facebook who jump in and lend a hand. Here I created an entire blog about doing good deeds for others, but I can't seem to lead by example. I spout from behind my computer about paying it forward and random acts of kindness . . . but maybe for the wrong reasons. Maybe it's more about the little things we do every day that matter, and we'll never know what kind of impact it made on someone. I really like how my Christmas photo cards turned out this year. Maybe someone received my card and felt special and remembered. Perhaps the extra details I added when helping plan my office Christmas party made someone's day. What if I really did save that driver from getting a ticket on an expired meter? I'll never know. And that's ok.
I really wanted to do something special to honor the victims of the Sandy Hook Elementary shooting. However, I'm not one of those outwardly fuzzy people that goes to candlelight vigils or writes publicly on Facebook about my broken heart. One of my family's traditions, since I grew up in New Mexico, is to line our sidewalk and driveway with luminarias on Christmas Eve. Many years ago our entire neighborhood would glow with these paper bag lanterns, and the effect was stunning. This year we're in Virginia, and we're going to surprise our neighbors with luminarias tonight. But there is more . . .
As I stood in my pajamas in my cold garage this morning, I taped a 27 names on 27 paper bags. As I read each name, I tried to recall what I knew about that person; that child or that educator, or that mother, as a way to honor his or her spirit on this Christmas Eve. It didn't give me a high. In fact, it gave me a low. But I felt connected to something, as I stood shivering on my oily, concrete floor in my slippers, and remembered the lives that were so inexplicably lost. And tonight those names will glow along our sidewalk for everyone else to read and remember.
So this Christmas Eve, maybe I'm still a little blue. I realize I want be more involved my community helping others. Maybe I also miss my grandparents, because Christmas always feels a little sad and hollow without them. Maybe I'm still waiting for the magical feeling I think you only feel as a kid. Yes, I still believe in Santa Clause, but now I realize that he's probably got high cholesterol and arthritis and his belly really shouldn't shake like a bowl full of jelly, because that's just unhealthy. Although mine does too, just a little. Maybe that elusive feeling of Christmas-past is gone forever, and I have to find new ways to feel the joy and magic. So tonight, with my family, we'll light the candles to honor strangers we have never met, family we have lost, and new friends we have made. I suppose the magic is inside of us always, and it's up to us how we use it.
I just looked outside my window . . . and it's snowing. Maybe it's Grandma and Grandpa stopping by to say Merry Christmas. Pretty magical . . . don't you agree?
Until next year, with peace, gratitude and a little bit of Christmas magic.
