Grateful

Christmas morning. Up much too early. Quiet; the gentle hum of the refrigerator just stopped, radiator popping as well. There’s a silence that echoes in my ears. How is it that true silence can be more deafening than not? Does our brain hate the absence of noise so much that it artificially must be filled? Looking at the tree, presents from our folks underneath, the books we bought yesterday interspersed because C wanted to make things more festive. We are a reading family, after all.

There is love under that tree, in the ornaments that hang from its branches. I can see the white wooden sailboat with the red sails that C and I bought in Perkins Cove in Maine. A thin snowman gifted to us from Frazzleberries, a local store where we often find cute knick-knacks and soaps and home goods. The red ceramic stocking from Reny’s in Belfast, Maine. The paw prints of our dogs, made only a few weeks ago in dough, their names and “2022” in black permanent marker on the back.

And then there are all the ornaments from my childhood. Each Christmas, my father gifted each of his children an ornament. They are gorgeous, elaborate things: one a little house made of paper mache, pine needles, and little red balls meant to represent holly. Another of an Irish Santa, another one still of a Victorian Santa. A soft, downy owl with feathers so soft and light. Older ornaments that I have no recollection of who gifted them or the story behind them. Plush ornaments from the early eighties that the dogs like to grab if we don’t put them higher on the tree. The rocking horse with a faded, yellow “1978”—the year of my birth—etched into a red base, tufts of fraying, white yarn a stand-in for her mane and tail.

This tree holds a history of love, of being loved, of having been loved. This sparse, little tree’s branches hold memories and wonderment. Some memories I can recall clearly, others are forever lost. Some memories are tinged with regret and I imagine some of these will be bittersweet when time and age and circumstances claim the people and animals behind them. I am lucky to have had such love in my life. Sometimes, I wish that I had children. I think I would have made a great mother (if one is raised by a great mother, to be otherwise to my own child would take some real effort). I grew up in love, grew up knowing I had a tribe of my own that would love me and cheer for me. It wasn’t always easy but it was always known. Growing up like that, it could only be passed on, passed through me. Instead, this love that I have been entrusted with, it is passed on to my partner C, it is passed on to our dogs, it is given to our community and friends and the people we pass by on the street. It is not a perfect love; I often get it wrong. I am fallible and I am self-conscious and I sometimes allow the fear of being unlovable to color and alter my behavior. But my family? We have always found our way back to each other. I know I matter to them, that I am of consequence in their lives. Have I shown that to them? Are they aware of how much my heart breaks for them because it is too much to keep all that love inside?

This little tree, with it’s fallen needles and proud branches, represents much of the joy and peace in my life. Sitting here in the predawn hours, looking at the lights, listening to the radiator pops, making fists with my toes in the carpet, I am whole. No holiday—no day—can or should be perfect. But, on this morning, my entire life has led to this point: C downstairs with our babies sleeping, my family scattered across mostly New England, parts of the U.S., parts of the world. I couldn’t be more grateful or overjoyed for the family I’ve been gifted.