May It Be
I don’t make New Year resolutions anymore.
It became too much pressure: coming up with the perfect idea to revolutionize (resolutionize?) my life and make me the best possible me I could be. There were the stand-bys: lose weight! save money! somehow end up with perfect hair and a perfect waistline and grow seven inches to become supermodel gorgeous! And there were the more unique ones: be as difficult as possible! never put my hair up in a bun again! hold an invisible camera to my face whenever there is a memory I want to hang onto, even though people will stare in confusion!
None of them worked out. For an overthinker, resolutions are like quicksand. The more you try, the more they pull you down.
So I decided I was done with them. But of course, during this time of year, I can’t help but retro- and introspect, and I can’t help but try to set a goal or intention for the coming year. My mom would say it’s because I’m a Virgo and want everything to be just so. (There may be something to that.) The cynic in me says it’s because I was raised in a high demand religion and have been tasked with constantly striving for perfection. (There may also be something to that.) Most likely, though, it’s because we live in a culture where we’re inundated with New Year NEW YOU! messaging, and it’s near impossible to not turn our thoughts to change.
Lately I’ve been trying to assign a word to the year. It feels less official than a resolution, but in all honesty it’s wild to call a shot at that point in the year. For the next twelve months, I will be focused and centered around . But, even though that feels overwhelming right now, I am compelled to think of what I want things to look like this year.
And so, when chatting with my husband while in an airport on December 28, I said, “This year, I want us to fill our home with joy.”
It sounds amazing, doesn’t it? Fill our home with joy. But what does it actually mean?
Honestly? I don’t entirely know. I mean, I know it means having people over, and letting laughter ring through the house. It means using the silly straws, even though they’re a bit of a pain to clean, because they make us smile. It looks like a Lego typewriter kit given to me by my husband, who heard me say that I grew up believing Lego are for boys, and how sad that made me. It is blankets and coziness and all of us together even though we all have sensory overload sometimes at the same time and it can be a lot - but thank goodness we’re all healthy and safe.
But our home, though often filled with Joy, is also filled with Grief. While some who read this will know our story, others may not … my husband is a widower, and my kids have lost their mom. It is the hardest, most unfair thing for them to have experienced, and it has invited Grief in to be a permanent houseguest.
How do I mother kids who are grieving their mother? How do I hold space for my husband when the grief can be just so heavy?
There are moments when I think that I may have found the secret to life: find a way to hold the Joy and the Grief at the same time. Together. Let them both tear through you, leave you gasping for breath, leave you raw.
I am learning that Joy and Grief are related - cousins, or maybe even siblings. Both experiences of love, both painful at times, neither a feeling we would ever do away with. Joy says, “This love RIGHT NOW, feel the abundance.” Grief says, “This is love RIGHT NOW, feel the absence.”
I will admit now that I do not always want to feel the Grief, to wake up and discover that it will be our companion for the day (or week, or month). Sometimes I want to turn away from it, and pretend it doesn’t exist. I want to invite only Joy into our home, let her fill up the space and leave no room for the heaviness of Grief. But to do so would not only deny my family the chance to let their love continue to grow, but would deny myself the chance to let Grief teach me. To let it make me soft. And I have a sneaking suspicion that if I refuse to welcome Grief into our home, Joy will stop coming around.
And so this is my wish for you, for me: May this year be a year of Joy. And, because none of us will make it through life unscathed, may it also be a year of Grief. The two held together, honing each other even as they blend.
May it be.