Verified by 
The Dark Light of Winter
I think one of the reasons we suffer during the holidays is that we're in the midst of a dichotomy. You'll hear it touched upon in the conversation about how materialistic the holidays have become, bemoaning the fact that everything is about commercialism.
But that comment is only the tip of the iceberg of the issue because what's really going on during the holiday season is that we're in the darkest time of year. There's light, but it's a dark light. It's soft light. It's a reserved, inner light. It's not the bright light of the summer.
Anyone who is involved in giving end-of-life care knows that, at the end of the year, people die. And it's not just because it's cold and people get the flu. I actually think it is a natural part of the life cycle. Nature enfolds at the end of a cycle. It's a natural pulling in. Life goes underground. And anything that's not strong enough to survive the rigors of going within passes on.
So we are continually in that tension at this time of year. And if it happens that we have actually lost someone, or someone in our family has lost someone, or if we are working with people who are in the midst of being visited by deep loss, it makes that dichotomy even more acute. Because the commercialism, the externality that has become holiday celebration, has become even more jarring to our inner sensibilities.
Even though we moderns tend to be detached from our bodies and our more organic selves, we still exist within that life continuum. We still have that sense of the season. And, of course, grief pulls us deeply within. It's a profound inner process. So I think that's one of the factors that make this tension even more difficult to deal with at the end of the year.
What we want to do is find a new way through the assumptions that we hold about the holidays.
First of all, what and why do we grieve? It is often the loss of someone that we cherish. It can even be things like a career, a part of your identity. Perhaps "empty nest" syndrome that occurs when a parent's role has been reduced in the life of the child. We also suffer over the loss of mobility, wealth, the future we had expected. Within the grieving process there is always change. In fact, change is often what instigates grieving. We're transitioning into something new, and there is the fear of the Unknown.
Succinctly put, we are losing our assumptive world—the internal and external structures that allow life to make sense to us. Nobody can take in the "everything-ness" of everything. We all have filters. And those filters of what we take into our awareness are how we create these assumptions about what life is going to bring us.
So when we experience dramatic loss, we grieve the loss of that whole structure. And I think one of the reasons that we have such a hard time is that not only is the future now the Unknown, but the past becomes unknown to us because it no longer exists. There is a void.
And, of course, our holiday traditions make up a big part of our assumptive world. Even if our family didn't get along so well and our holiday celebrations have traditionally included emotional explosions, we still think it ought to be peaceful with everybody sitting around the table, holding hands in great tenderness and harmony. We have these assumptions.
Holiday Shopping
At a recent workshop I conducted on this subject, one attendee offered the following observation about holiday assumptions. She said, "I have all kinds of assumptions and they have never yet come to pass except, perhaps, in the far-distant, much-revised memory of my childhood. I think the assumption is that it's going to be full of warmth and cheer, everybody's supposed to be in a good mood. I love to go shopping and find the perfect gift for someone, thinking, So-and-so would really like that. And then maybe they don't. So I don't do that shopping any more because you're rushing around with all of that tension and pressure. So, yes, I have all kinds of assumptions about the holidays and they just don't happen."
Coming back to the idea of the nature of the season, I think that many of our assumptions come from this tension that at a soul level—an inner, natural level—we're anticipating the inner warmth of the hearth and home when it's cold outside. We cocoon together to create a mutual warmth because that is how we have naturally dealt with the cold of winter in the past.
It's almost like a genetic imprint because years ago we were at the mercy of the elements. People didn't have central heating and they could die from the cold. That seeking shelter from the cold is one origin of the winter solstice holidays. It's the kindling of the inner light to counteract the outer darkness.
So I think that one reason our holiday assumptions remain unfulfilled is because so much of the celebration has become external. Everything you need for a happy, commercial holiday is at Walmart. But it's just not the same. You may buy a little plug-in, fake fireplace, but it's just not quite the cozy Celtic hearth of your soul memory.
At this same workshop, I encouraged the attendees to consider the question, "How have I been prepared to deal with this holiday season, especially if I or my loved ones may be dealing with grief?" In other words, what is the essence of a good holiday experience—and are there bits of it that we can still enjoy, even in the midst of grief?
For example, for many people, being able to spend time and share food and conversation with friends and family is the essence of the holidays. When I asked, "How do those times of sharing make us feel?" one woman answered, "Warm inside—and that makes me want to reach out to people even more."
Connecting with others at the holidays kindles the warmth in the heart. When you feel that inner warmth and love, you can't help but extend yourself. It is the nature of love to extend. That's actually what we want—to kindle the inner warmth that makes us want to reach out. That's the essence of gift giving. If we kindle that inner warmth, by nature, it gives.
So then we delve a bit deeper and ask, "What is connected with this feeling of love, with giving?" Some answers include: celebration and social interaction. Good food and laughter.
But what if we've been hit with a grief scenario that naturally makes us contract? Rather than the heart feeling warm, it hurts; it feels small. We are overwhelmed, numb. Are there transferrable activities or behaviors that we can retrieve from a recollection of holiday joy and then bring to bear on our grief situation?
One woman suggested giving a farm animal to a family in Africa. "Let's not spoil the kids," she said. "Instead, let's find a charity that we trust and whose mission we advocate."
Reaching Out to Others
Another lady suggested that in a grief experience, it might actually be easier to reach out to and connect with and give to others a couple of steps removed instead of to the people who are closest to us because they may also be emotionally caught up in the deep grieving that is dominating our own life.
So I asked, "What happens when you do reach out, even if you don't feel like it? What happens if you give? What happens to your heart?"
"It opens," the group said in a single voice.
It's not just a one-way street. I learned this in acting. If you're doing a long run, performing twelve shows a week, you may not always feel like being entertaining. But you can act as if you do and then you eventually feel it. In my experience, it's the same outcome when waiting tables. If you act as if you care about the people coming to be fed, as you are serving them, you start to connect with them as individuals and everybody feels better.
Kindling the Inner Light
So that's the transferrable factor in "how have I been prepared to deal with grief at the holidays?" I do know that it works to extend myself with love and I can practice doing so, even if my heart is breaking.
The point is to remember what holiday joy feels like. To kindle that inner fire and then let it do its work in me and my loved ones, and in those whom I do not even know, but whose lives my love may be able to touch because of what I can share of the lessons grief has taught me.
