Resetting the Clock

I had expected to hit pause when making the decision about hosting our family’s Christmas brunch, considering the issue of the Delta Variant. Last year it had been a no-brainer, as COVID raged and required that we all spend the holidays by ourselves. Break-through cases were now of new concern, and congregating indoors with my thirty family members presented an undeniable and perhaps unacceptable risk: a few members of our tribe worried that the vaccine would exacerbate their already compromised immune systems, and some had yet to be “boostered.” Could I guarantee everyone that Aunt Susie’s Eggs Benedict wouldn’t come with a Hollandaise Sauce swimming with creepy little viruses?

Nevertheless, as October gave way to November, I had yet to deliver the news to my extended family that I had decided that our decades-long tradition would have to be scratched once again. Without a doubt, I had developed an overwhelming case of cancellation hesitancy; perhaps I wasn’t sure that jettisoning the party was the best choice. Or maybe I just didn’t want to give up the possibility of a joyous gathering that occurred only once a year. I knew there was a chance that my resistance to reason might actually increase as the days went by and become serious, but by the second week of the new month, my symptoms were still mild.

Somehow, despite logic, I’d begun to question whether cancelling this holiday celebration might prove to be a total mistake. Of course, to scale back the size of the party would be one option. And then to determine, who, based on vaccination status, would get the nod to attend. But this idea, practical as it seemed, did nothing to quell my discomfort at telling some they weren’t welcome. The prospect of not inviting everyone simply didn’t feel the right way to go; perhaps I was also worried about the family’s reaction to such a division, one that some might see as unfair or even a political statement.

A few more days passed before all-out rumination set in and my disquiet sharpened: while turning back the clocks by an hour in anticipation of the end of daylight saving time, I moved slowly from room to room, and it suddenly struck me as entirely reasonable to plan the festivities and invite everyone. Why not just let them all decide for themselves whether they will come? At this point I began to rationalize even further. Who says that I should be the one to run the whole show?

However, my sister texted me early the next day, just as I was throwing a load of whites into the washer, and my response to her question took me by surprise in its brief and evasive nature. Suddenly, I wasn’t one bit certain of how to respond to her, despite all my earlier ruminations. Figuring it out now! I quickly typed back.

The four-word message offered no hint of the way I’d been obsessing over the idea of asking all family members to decide for themselves whether they would attend—even though there then might well be some who were unvaccinated among those of us who were.

My response to my sister about “figuring it out” had described the truth: In the time that had passed since my internal dialogue about “letting the people speak,” I’d had more opportunity to think. I’d given my mind more hours in which to spin. In fact, prior to falling asleep the night before, I’d conjured up what I thought was an even better idea: I didn’t let myself perceive that I was only returning to my initial thoughts about the party. Why couldn’t I control it all? I wondered.

If I hadn’t been going over and over it so anxiously, I might have been able once again to quickly dismiss this idea as another irrational solution. Yet, how deeply I wanted to believe that I could be in charge of everything. Shouldn’t I just direct the entire shebang and decide who was invited and who was not? Command, command, command. I decided on a new course of action: I would not let each person simply decide for themselves—I’d just invite everyone to come. In this fantasy, which would be grounded in an unrealized sort of manipulation, I would “make” them come and not take “no” as an answer.

Now, I would draw upon the family perception that I was the persuasive, no-drama sibling and aunt, the one who had mastered the art of how to throw a fun bash. I would easily be able to convince them all to come to our house. Adopting my most soothing “therapist’s tone,” I’d help them assuage their fears; I’ll set up the tables so that anyone who wants to socially distance will be able to! I’d say in a happy voice, one designed to reassure. And, of course, I’ll make sure that everyone wears a mask.

How crazed I’d become to find a way to get everyone on board, thereby keeping alive our family tradition––as it was the only one we still celebrated as a clan. Regaling the kids with stories about family members who had now passed—especially those about my wacky parents––had always been central to these gatherings. Story-telling, along with handing over the tchotchkes that had once cluttered Mom and Dad’s home, was the way in which important recollections became part of a succeeding generation’s consciousness, the way in which new memories were established. It was a special day for us all—and exceptionally so for me.

Yet, suddenly I was swamped with emotional clarity. Wasn’t it true that my need for control was only a cover for my fear—a fear that blanketed my increasing anxiety? Would my family’s revelry survive another year of interruption? Before I’d even finished folding the laundry, I was able to admit to myself that what I was most afraid of was the idea that if I cancelled the brunch, all of those whom I loved would develop their own, separate traditions. And move on from an experience I still wanted and needed. How lonely it was to imagine setting only two places at our large table and lighting candles for all the people who would be missing.

For so many of us world-wide, the holidays are a time when certain customs connect us to the mutual history we share with our families. Valued traditions offer predictable and comforting ways to keep everyone close by––including those who are long gone. When such traditions are threatened, particularly if this should occur before we are ready to let go of them emotionally, we inevitably try to avoid contemplating the possible loss. Or try to avoid mourning what we might already be missing.

Earlier this week, after having the insight, I began notifying family that, with intense regret, I would not be offering them the Crylen Holiday Express. There will be no Christmas brunch, nor do I plan to throw a creative alternative, like “Christmas in July.” With each call made, and each email sent, I felt once again—as did I last year—a swell of sadness and uncertainty about what our next December holiday will bring; this is an idea that discomfits me a great deal.

But the swirl of my thoughts in the last several weeks has been instructive in a way that I had not anticipated. The voice I hear in my mind this morning speaks quietly: it neither urges me to cling to convention, nor to craft a new frame for staying connected as kin.

Rather, it incorporates both reason and emotion and reminds me to pause; it nudges me to trust that it is at this place, where I stop trying to fill the void which loss can bring, a place where I have finally found a solution to the emptiness that initially seemed intolerable. Perhaps in a way that echoes resetting our clocks in spring and in fall, I ask the question of whether it’s time to move our family’s rituals forward, or, however sadly, to let them go. Maybe I’ve matured enough that now, in my sixty-eighth year, I can allow a dearth of tradition into my heart—and accept it. As for the abundance of tender family memories that I hold in this space? I remind myself that there is plenty of room for them. Room enough, even, for more.