Each winter, there comes a point when—frustrated by cold temperatures that seem to bring all drear and no cheer—I feel like an aggrieved adolescent. For a few irrational moments, petulance rules my emotions. I personalize what is clearly not personal, or even possible, somehow believing that the long stretch of days between November and March is a punishment inflicted on me by an angry Mother Nature. The reality, of course, lies in a far more ordinary condition. I am simply one among many who, from late fall until spring, cannot seem to free ourselves from the grip of the “winter blues.”

For many of us, Christmas is a time when we remember loved ones now gone and sift through our favorite recollections about them. After my parents’ deaths almost a decade ago, I stumbled upon a way to ensure that grandchildren and great-grandchildren alike would have greater access to my “Mimi” and “Papa” memory vault, stored away in my basement. Each December, I undertake a one-woman archaeological dig. Slipping on an old sweatshirt and jeans, I descend the steep stairs into our storage room: it’s dusty, dark and quiet. There, I crouch over large boxes I’ve marked with my parents’ names. My enthusiasm grows as I begin delving for treasure.

Being the host for gatherings at Thanksgiving and Christmas has long been my role in our family, which boasts thirty members on each side. And whether hosting my in-laws at Thanksgiving, or my own kin at Christmas, it’s a position in which I take considerable pleasure: creating a space that radiates warmth for relatives old and young; serving a meal that promises enough left-overs for everyone to take home an arm-load. I love the slick humor that runs through conversations like jazz riffs, and the familial yarns told as if they’re being shared for the first, rather than the fiftieth time. What joy to brush off the welcome mat and open the door wide. Every year, I am ready. All in for a grand time.

One recent fall afternoon, with the breeze of the day blowing warm in a way we don’t usually see at this time of the year, I sat meditating in an oversized chair. Mentally exhausted by the presence of COVID and the strife of the election, I snuggled deeper into the cushion, the room’s silence wrapped around me. Solitude and stillness have long been my refuge when I’m feeling stressed, but what I had not anticipated on this day was how strong the pull to retreat from all conversation would be; how important it was to avoid hearing any echo of sound.

All Trick and no Treat.

How else to judge a Halloween that came with a town recommendation insisting no tiny princesses or pint-sized dragons should parade down our street? A Pandemic directive nixed any chance that a wide-eyed Minnie Mouse or Action figure might toddle within reach.

Science tells us that the emotion of nostalgia reveals, in complex detail, why we gravitate to certain remembrances—although it seems clear that no one set of findings can fully explain nostalgia’s power. It lights up different parts of the brain on an MRI, and typically is described by psychologists as a “bittersweet” phenomenon; it carries, at the least, some measure of both pleasure and pain. If you are like me, someone who is sentimental by nature, perhaps you, too, have developed a sweet tooth for memories that are enlivening; and are mindful about rationing the ones that are not.

Most mornings, my “disquietude,” as I prefer to call my anxiety, is a slow riser. I’m usually halfway through the newspaper’s Op-Ed page before it arrives, unhurried as a yawn but just as insistent, stretching its way through my thoughts. That’s because these days my brand of worry tends more toward melancholy than toward agitation and lingers rather than races. This kind of anxiety dates back to my childhood and reminds me of what I am not: someone born with “the happy gene.”

In this era of the pandemic, I must admit that I have entered the ranks of those who’ve increased their practice of scanning the horizon for all signs of light—for any silver lining at all. This is the reason I was pleased when the Chicago Tribune ran a feature article the other day about families who were managing their COVID-19 confinement better than expected.

When Covid-19 struck, I had no problem with swathing my mouth and nose behind a hot and sweaty piece of cloth. After all, the public service announcements that dominated the airwaves reassured us that we all were in this together: Masks would keep us safe.