The Route to Resolution - Just for Today

I’m not a big fan of New Year’s. Never have been. When I was a child, it signaled an abrupt halt to the excitement and anticipation of Christmas. The presents were opened, the cookies mostly gone, the magical lights would be coming down, and the long western NY winter months stretched interminably ahead.  As an adult, it’s pretty much the same thing. Just strike the “western” part.

I’ve never been the party type either. The idea of being out in public amongst a bunch of on-their-way-to-drunk revelers trying to look/act like I am having fun strikes me as about as appealing as a trip to the dentist.

The turning of one year into another often makes me feel melancholy. Even when it’s been one of the “good” years, even when the year to come holds a promise of fun and new adventures, I still feel mournful. I have just come to expect it. I do not let go of things, years included, easily.

As a child and a young adult, I always made the same New Year’s resolution until I realized it was a losing proposition.  “I will stop biting my fingernails.” It never lasted more than a few days. That’s partly because it was such unconscious activity. I would suddenly realize that I had chomped half-way through a nail. And then, of course I had to finish the job. Off the wagon, there wasn’t much point climbing back on. Perhaps you know the drill. It could be the same for any addiction, any compulsion, any bad habit. You want something to be different (or maybe you don’t, really) and you - along, perhaps with your brain chemistry and other hard-wiring -  are the only barrier en route to the difference.

I still bite my nails. Well, not so much biting as ripping. Sometimes mercilessly. I often complain to the woman I call my heart mother, “I don’t stop until I draw blood.” The analytic route of considering who I might want to bite instead hasn’t put a dent in my habit. I’ve tried nail polish – it works for awhile, until it doesn’t. A friend suggests that I commit to a weekly manicure but I am too embarrassed to let a manicurist see the condition of my fingers, so that’s out. Plus I would have to deal with my entrenched belief that this activity falls in the category of unnecessary extravagance. [Aside to daughter and best friend – this is my issue, not a commentary on your activity.] Those who’ve been up in a hot air balloon or who are planning a Parisian trip with me know that I do not disallow all extravagance. 

So forget the nails. Maybe I’ll torture them until death do us part.

There are several other things on my mind as I skid into 2011. Sugar is one of them. Those who have known rail-thin me all my life might scoff. However, some time during the four years of my mother’s illness, and continuing in the almost five years she’s been gone, I managed to develop an addiction to sugar. It started with mom’s cookies –the ones she always had waiting for me whenever I arrived. Luckily I was pretty underweight to begin, otherwise the problem (and I) might be bigger. It wasn’t until this past year that I began to take a hard look at my compulsive sugar behavior and realized that if I didn’t want to end up diabetic or overweight, I was going to need to intervene. As with the fingernails, I have been a member of the “You’ve gone this far, you might as well finish” club. The things I might as well finish would be the box of cookies, the box of candy, the cupcakes, the half-gallon of ice cream. Far be it from me to actually throw it/them out instead. That would go against my puritan ethic of waste-not-want-not. I’m stuck no matter what I do.

I did learn something in 2010, however, that I see as potentially helpful as I move closer to, oh my god(dess), life without (extra) sugar. I am a binger. I realized this when I began to examine my shopping practice. I could be shopping dormant for weeks, maybe months, but once I made up my mind to buy something, and the first purchase was made, there was no stopping me until I was sated. The trick was to not make that first purchase, which seemed ridiculously easy to me once I realized it. Don’t look in the catalogs, stay out of the stores. Remove temptation. Case closed.    

Although I suspect that sugar will be a harder demon to corral, the principle is the same. Just don’t start. I tried an experiment during my school’s annual holiday party this season. The morning of the party, I said to myself, “Let’s make a deal. Just for today, why don’t you try to not consume any sugar. See if you can do it. No dessert at the party, ok?” I agreed with myself that I could tolerate anything for just one day.  And I did. I successfully walked past the box of high-end candy sitting on the low gray file cabinet where office personnel tend to place temptations. At the lunch-time party, I ate the entrée, the veggies, and the salad. When it was time for dessert, I gave a brief glance at the array of goodies to see what I was missing (Damn! Cannoli!), said “Just for today” to myself, and “I’m getting out of here” to my staff.  Done! Success! Empowered! But sadly, it was just for that day. The next day rolled around and I made no such pact with myself.  

I suspect this is like any other addiction. A little turns into a lot and then too much before one realizes what has happened. The pleasure-in-the-moment makes the what-have-I-done aftershocks sink into the background. Until it doesn’t.  Maybe I am edging toward that point. We’ll see.

I will stop short of pledging a reduced-or-no-sugar resolution for this New Year. The nail failure is still vivid and I don’t need another reason to feel badly about myself. My plan is to employ the one-day-at-a-time strategy. So when I am facing the enticement of icecreamcookiescakecandysodapiefruittarts cannoliscremebrulee and other tasty delights, in that moment of decision, I only entreat my brain to remind my mouth that this morning we urged Just for today. Who knows, maybe in an instance of research carryover, my nails will thank me.

The Magic is in the Lights

The magic is clearly in the lights. As I walked home from the train every night during this most unholiday-like of seasons toward my unadorned apartment, the colorful lights along the way invariably lifted my mood which varied between sad and anxious on most days.

When I was small, during that last anticipation-filled week before Christmas, my family would pile in the car and head off toward our town, in search of houses decorated with Christmas lights. We had our route. First was the three-story white house positioned on the left just as our town officially turned into the city. My sister and I were thoroughly impressed by the massive show of lights that hung from the roof, every window, every bush and tree. Then, we'd turn right down East Avenue, where my sister and I thought the "rich people" lived. Many of their homes were beautifully  - but tastefully - decorated with lights. The house with the seen-from-the-street chandelier featured a tree that was bigger than any we'd ever seen inside.

Next stop was the grounds of the Veteran’s Administration Hospital . The long driveway leading up to the hospital’s front doors gave us plenty of time to gape in wonder at the two majestic fir trees elegantly decorated with hundreds of lights. Then we'd turn down Redfield Parkway, the second bastion of rich people. It was the only street in our town that featured a wide median, beautifully landscaped during non-snow months. Each house had a small evergreen tree planted in its front yard, and almost every one on the entire street decorated those evergreens with lights. When we asked why some people’s trees were not lit, the answer came back, “They are Jewish.” I didn’t know what that meant and somehow I didn’t dare to ask. But I secretly could not understand why anybody would pass up the opportunity to decorate the tree in their yard.

It was the time before the over-the-top displays started to emerge, at least in our town. Some houses had little statues, sometimes a crèche, or wooden Santa and reindeer figures. I remember my dad cracking up over one particular Santa, whose reindeer were trying to nudge his heavy butt up onto the roof.

Our absolute favorite stop was “The Blind School” – which was really The NY State School for the Blind. They had a huge campus, with trees and bushes colorfully adorned. But the best part was the little houses. There were two or three doll-sized and electrified houses that always sat clustered in one area of the massive side lawn. We would get out of the car and trudge through the snow to those little houses and peek through the windows. Inside, they were fully furnished and decorated for Christmas, complete with little doll people. I was fascinated by the detail – and longed to take them home with me.

Eventually, I grew up - at least chronologically. The man with the white house at the edge of the city got too old to do all that decorating. The VA stopped lighting those majestic firs -- budget cuts. And the "blind school" put away its little houses after vandals struck. I moved away where I started my own driving-around-town tradition with my little girl.

Still, Christmas time took us back to mom's house. After my grandmother passed away in the late eighties, my family started going to late night Christmas eve services at the church of my childhood. There is not really a connection between my grandmother dying and going to church. It just happened that way. In the beginning, my brother-in-law would stay home with his and my sister's youngest daughter and my brother. When she got older and able to stay awake, she joined my mom, my aunt and uncle, my older niece, my daughter and I in the annual pilgrimage. I speak only for myself and my daughter when I say we are not religious but the familiarity of the Christmas story, the soothing sound of the old Christmas hymns, and especially the beauty of the church, lit only by the white lights of the Christmas tree near the altar and the twinkling candles we each held were balm to my spirit. 

Many times as we’d leave the church after midnight, the snow would be swirling about, quickly covering the streets and making driving an adventure. We’d drive through the quiet streets back to my mom’s house, and detour to see the new generation of Christmas lights, often making the first of the tracks in the new snow. We’d be all squished together in the back seat of my aunt and uncle's big car, on top of each other, giggling, with our teeth chattering, “Turn up the heat” – and we’d ooh and aah at the beautiful lights, shining magically in the quiet Christmas night.

Last Saturday night, I drove my brother through the streets of my old hometown, scouting for Christmas lights. My mom used to take him to do that when she was living and I don't want him to miss out. When he says, "That be fun" to my invitation to hop in the car, I know that the lights hold magic for more than just me. Not living there, I have no idea where the "good" displays are. We simply drive around and go down any street that looks promising. U-turns are the norm. He’s partial to the over-the-top collections of “stuff” that adorn the lawns of many who compete in the Jaycee’s annual lighting contest. I prefer the simpler displays that are merely colorful.

I am in Virginia now, where my sister and her family live. Last night I drove back to my sister's after dinner at my older niece's home. In the mile between the two homes, there were several streets with houses that were colorfully lit. My daughter was speaking as we drove, while I was busily fighting my impulse to quickly u-turn and follow my eyes down those streets. I did not follow the lights. But I am still thinking about them. It will be dark again in about two hours. And perhaps I will be pulled out in the cold (yes, it's cold here) to drive around one last night and soak in the magic.  

I'm late! I'm late! For a Very Important Date!

"I'm late! I'm late! For a very important date! I'm late! I'm late! I'm late!" So panicked the White Rabbit of Lewis Carroll’s Alice in Wonderland.  WR and I have a lot in common at this moment.

I have been trying to write an entry for this blog since last Friday. It’s Wednesday morning. Not much has interfered with my disciplined effort to produce on a weekly basis, but this time, a multitude of obligations have come between me and myself.

Right now, I need to get to the post office to mail a box of Christmas cut-out-frosted-decorated cookies to my aunt and uncle in Florida and they need to arrive by Friday. These are my mom’s cookies – the ones that take oh-so-much time to make, but are oh-so-worth-the-effort. My aunt and uncle are 90 and 91, respectively and I have done this for them since the time my mom couldn’t do it any longer. Their exclamations of joy and appreciation make the time and effort entirely worth it. However, I should have been at the post office when it opened – or so I believe. The reason I am not is that I have my sweet brother in residence for the holidays. He has two speeds, slow and slower (although my daughter maintains the speeds are slow and stopped). We must get through a shower, a shave, a brushing of the teeth, and the donning of clothing – all of which are meticulously completed, after which he will likely proudly announce, “See? I fast!” I take a deep breath and try to find something else to do while I am waiting that’s equally as important (like writing this).

When did the time of Advent become a race to the finish line? Someone I know has been posting daily “antidotes” to the stress of the holidays on her blog since December 1. Most of the antidotes involve, simplistically summarized (and I do mean “simplistic” because her writing is at once elegant and thought-provoking), recognition of and connection with what is real. 

I can’t recall a year when I have been so torn between values and tradition, must-do’s and want-to-do’s. Much of it, I am sure, is simply a result of conflicting time frames. Every time I had to make a choice between something I wanted to do vs. what was due for some class, well – you know what I did. Consequently, for the first time since the early 1970s, my Christmas tree remained in the closet until December 19. It’s usually up the weekend after Thanksgiving because ordinarily, it probably gives me more pleasure than anything else associated with this holiday. Getting the tree out and up this year happened solely because of the brother-in-residence phenomenon….otherwise, this would likely have been the year that Christmas barely happened.  My beloved Christmas village remains boxed. Only about a third of my massive collection of ornaments dangles from tree limbs. There are no lights on the porch, no Christmas dishes to eat on, no poinsettia or wreath…. I am feeling a little like a Christmas failure.  

While I listen to the whir of my brother’s shaver and tell myself that express mail is a miracle, I cling to the moments during this season of theoretical joy when I have felt real and connected, and wasn’t thinking about what I needed to do next. In no particular order, they are:

• The family Christmas party at my brother’s group home. After four years, I’ve come to know and appreciate his housemates and their families, and to cherish the dedicated and kind staff. All but two of the staff members made it to Saturday’s party. One former housemate returned. Two former staff members showed up. The eager, “Are you here for our party?” from the verbal housemates, the dishes of food we all contributed, the easy conversation that comes from years of shared concern and strategizing, and the excitement with which my brother’s housemates tackled their Christmas presents – that was real and it was fun.
• Ninety minutes with two good friends, a mother and daughter whom I’ve known since I was in my teens. We three once worked together in a restaurant in my hometown. I don’t get to see them very often as we live 350 miles apart, and when I am in their vicinity, I am usually attending to my brother. I knew from the younger of them that Saturday would be their cookie decorating marathon, and so when the gift of time presented itself, I took the chance and dropped in. No advance phone call needed. I knew I would be welcome. Besides the delicious opportunity to sample their cookies, the love and laughter that flows between us when we get an opportunity to catch up and just be with each other is affirming. They ask nothing of me, except to show up when I can. And when I can’t, they understand.
• Two hour+ phone conversations with my sweet daughter about our changing perceptions of holiday celebrations and what’s important to each of us. It is sometimes painful as we slog through this together… but it’s real and it’s honest.
• The half-mile walk at night from the train station to my home amid all the Christmas lights that adorn the trees, shrubs, and walk-ways of the various apartment buildings. The lights of Christmas have always soothed me. Light is important. Color almost equally so.

As I formulate my plans for future holiday celebrations, I will revisit these moments. The effort to determine what needs to remain and what needs to change will require that.  At the moment, my sweet tortoise brother has just proclaimed, “See? I fast.”  

Mom's Christmas Cookies

Christmas has always been the hands-down winner of the My Favorite Holiday vote. I’ve loved everything about it for as long as I can remember (except for the real-tree-fire-hazards of my early childhood).

When I was small, there would always come a day in the endless set of days between Thanksgiving and Christmas when my mom would pull out her big old Mixmaster.  She would announce that today we were going to bake cookies, and my sister’s and my eyes would light up with happiness. The first job was to mix up her renowned sour cream sugar cookies. That dough had to chill for what seemed like hours until it was stiff enough to roll out. So after the dough was deposited in the refrigerator and covered with a dish towel, we got to work making “Spritz” butter cookies. My sister and I, decked out in matching aprons made by our grandmother, traded off cracking the eggs, being careful not to massacre the shell or lose any of the unwanted egg white in the bowl of ingredients, lest our mother (the perfectionist) decide we were too young to be trusted with the job. We watched intently as she loaded the pastry tube with the yellow dough and perfectly pressed out wreaths and trees and poinsettias. If we promised to be neat, we got to carefully sprinkle the red and green sugars (no such thing as blue and purple and pink back then) on her creations, and press little cinnamon rounds where a wreath bow or tree star or poinsettia cyathium belonged. It was then that I decided that cinnamon was my absolute favorite flavor, and I probably snuck more than I planted in place.

Those delicious cookies baked quickly so we didn’t have to delay gratification too long to get the first yummy bite of Christmas. Then it would be lunch time, and after that we’d pepper her with constant teasing, “Is the dough ready yet?” until finally – finally – she’d declare it firm enough, and the real fun began. She’d get out her pastry cloth and flour it lightly, encase the old wooden rolling pin in its cloth, and deftly roll out the dough. My sister and I got to cut out the cookies – trees and stars and bells and Santas – and place them carefully on the cookie sheets, being mindful not to alter their shape with our small and sometimes clumsy hands. The best part was after they were baked, when mom mixed confectionary sugar, butter, and a little bit of milk into frosting. The privilege of frosting the cookies was always hers and she did it perfectly, carefully moving the frosting from the middle out to the edges, as neat as can be. Once the frosting was completed, she’d set it down and then my sister and I got to decorate again. This time, in addition to the red and green, we had yellow sugar and chocolate & multi-color “jimmies”, red cinnamon rounds, and silver balls to create our masterpieces. We still had to be neat about it. My mom was very particular – trees had to be green (though a little red as an accent was ok) and stars had to be yellow, and I guess she wasn’t fussy about the bells or Santas.

I still remember the first time I nervously frosted a cookie myself – I was probably about 12 or 13 – and I was determined that it would look as perfect as my mom’s beautiful creations.  

Mom’s cookies gradually developed a following outside of her immediate family. Everyone loved them and she never failed to deliver. When she was sick with cancer and the holidays were approaching, she made cookies on her better days and froze them so she’d have them when she wanted to start giving them away. After she passed away in January 2006, cleaning out her freezer, I uncovered a Tupperware container filled with bells and stars. I brought them home with me and put them in my freezer. Along with them came a couple of pie crusts and a cool whip container filled with her chicken stock. For almost five years, I dodged them as other things came and went in the freezer.

This year at Thanksgiving, with family coming for the first time for the holiday in New York, I needed to make room in the freezer for other items. Everything came under scrutiny. Out went the old frozen veggies and fruit that I hadn’t gotten around to using. Out went the boxes of Girl Scout thin mint cookies I bought years ago when my daughter still ate them. Out went the too-strong coffee from I can’t remember where or when. I checked out the container of chicken stock. Definitely time to ditch that. Out it went. Not too painful. I checked out the pie crusts. Freezer burned. Plus under the one that she definitely made, I discovered two “store-bought” crusts – bogus! Out they went. No tears shed.

The cookies were left. I argued with myself – these are FIVE YEARS old. You’ll make more. These can’t be any good. Stop being so sentimental. You’ll make more. You’ll make more. You’ll make more.

I stood there alone in my kitchen. Nobody else was around to urge me one way or another. I remembered walking into mom’s kitchen every other weekend during almost the entire last year of her life. Though she was usually lying on the couch in the living room when I arrived, exhausted from chemo and the effort to keep the house and everything going for my brother, the kitchen counter almost always held her large round Tupperware container filled with frosted, decorated sour cream cookies just for me because I loved them. Those cookies were an ongoing act of mother-love. The evidence sat on my shelf. They still connect me with her.

I put the cookies back in the freezer.

Curbing the Christmas Shopping Frenzy

It’s been four months since my daughter and I made a pact during our annual trek to Maine to not buy any new clothes, shoes, bags, or (in her case) new and unnecessary “product” (i.e. make-up, creams, and other potions) for a year. The reason was simple – I had become uneasy over my compulsive need to accumulate. I felt guilty because I have so much that buying more seemed gluttonous and immoral. My space felt crowded and disorganized, which was leading to overwhelmed. My inner guide whispered, “j u s t   s t o p.”

For a few weeks, I wrote about having/not having and enough/not enough, and then my thoughts turned to other things. But “the commitment” remains in effect.  I’ve had one instance of “catalog longing” over a sweater in colors that soothe me. It lasted just about one moment. Most catalogs that still come to my home go straight to the recycling pile without a second glance. I stopped all retail email solicitations, which has been a relief. There is enough clogging my in-box. What manages to slip through on occasion is simply deleted.

I had an interesting debate with my best friend in September about whether rain shoes – also seen in a catalog - constitute a need or a want. She argued that they should not be on the no-buy list; I wasn’t so sure. Her reasoning included a reference to wet feet and discomfort. Mine included the suspicion that I could get along without them. The conversation was inconclusive. I didn’t throw the catalog out, but I haven’t ordered them either. That was two months ago. I’ll see how I feel about it when the next rainy season comes around.

Now Christmas is coming. ‘Tis the season of gluttony and excess. I realized in the early fall that Christmas was going to require some strategizing.

In Maine, before we made our commitment to each other, my daughter had bought me a small piece of art that I loved and I had bought her a couple of items she wanted. We often do that when we are together on vacation and then save our purchases for Christmas. Ordinarily, that would be just the beginning of our shopping-for-each-other-frenzy. But by October, we had determined that it had been the end instead. The present shower was over, at least between us.

This is not easy for me but it’s palatable because she and I are doing it together. I love buying/giving presents. I love the excitement that goes along with pleasing someone I love with something I know they will love. But the reality is that it’s rarely some-thing with me – more like some-things. Once I start, it’s hard for me to stop. My brother-in-law teases me about my shopping stamina. He’ll walk in the room and, if I’m there, wonder, “Stores closed?”  

A few years ago before Christmas, my best friend had said in passing that she thought she would like a charm bracelet. I bought her the bracelet, and I didn’t stop buying charms until I had exhausted every single thing I could think of that might have meaning to her. And yes, she loved it, and I loved giving it to her, but it serves as an example of my compulsiveness where shopping is concerned. Last year, my entrepreneurial daughter mentioned a desire to make her own greeting cards. I didn’t stop until I bought every conceivable tool, accessory, paper, rubber stamp, punch, ink, etc etc etc that I could think of in order to create her own card studio. Actually, I might have missed something. I simply ran out of time.

Therefore, curbing my Christmas shopping habit is a very big deal. I suspect that if I were not buried in school work, I would find this more painful. Next year, when my coursework is over will be a better test of my control. For now, the compulsiveness that gets my papers done will partially replace my throbbing need to go Christmas shopping. I simply do not have time.

I am not planning to give up Christmas altogether. I suspect a cold turkey decision would depress me. I have a brother who would be devastated and would just not “get it”. And I have other family and friends I still want to please. There are elements about Christmas I love, and I hope some of them will remain when whatever inside me that’s shifting settles. More than the wish to declutter and stop accumulating, I want to curb compulsivity so it’s not driving me. But underneath compulsive is also a generous soul – and I do not want to lose her.