Loss, of course, is universal.  Why is it so much harder to bear between Thanksgiving and the New Year?

And, now that we’re sending more troops to Afghanistan, not only to be in jeopardy of death, but also to be taught how to kill — there will be hundreds if not thousands more to whom this ‘modern parable’ will need to be sent.  Do what you can, hot-link-wise to remind our leaders of the lessons of Korea and Vietnam. 

On this day of all days, the anniversary of Pearl Harbor, I must add, “Days that live in infamy are no longer limited to the Japanese.”

Doesn’t anyone see that far more of our brothers and sisters have died in these vengeful wars than in the World Trade Center disaster?  What good is war?  All my life, I have sen only harm.

This essay appeared in The Times of Trenton, on the OpEd Page, some Christmases ago.  I feel it is always in order to remind people that this time of year, meant to celebrate the return of the light, can truly strafe those who have experienced unbearable loss.  Reach out to those you know, for whom this is the case.  Reach out in empathy:

HOLIDAY LOSS – a modern parable

Here they are again, the relentless “Holidays”.  Season of the return of the light for so many people of so many faiths.  But, for those who have lost the very dear, this time can wear a dark cloak.

This Season, luminous for others, looms for the bereaved.  Attention should be paid to those who mourn while others rejoice.  The grieving need to be reassured that surviving holiday loss is possible.  No, it’s not easy.  And yes, there will be fascinating blessings in this seemingly impossible journey.  Some days, the sad person must hammer out a way.  Other days, the way simply unrolls, when and where least expected. 

There are certain steps which assist in this process.  A motto of the 1940’s instructs, “When you’re blue, little girl, when you’re blue – do something for somebody, do.”  That works.  So does creating one or two small celebrations:  not only when the heart is not in it, but BECAUSE it is not!  It is hard to believe that a heavy heart can generate glows in holiday faces, but this does indeed happen.  Deep inside, no matter the sorrow, light remains. 

Visiting a video store which encourages the taking out of many films for many days can bring inner miracles.  Old favorites are helpful.  Even more astonishing can be the gifts in movies never seen, possibly never even heard of.  The 1992 film, “A Midnight Clear”, carries the viewer to a time of global bereavement.  Its literally stellar cast includes Gary Sinise as Vance (“Mother”) Wilkins.  Set in a mountain fastness in 1944 France, an American Intelligence squad, –chosen, ironically, for their intelligence (I.Q. scores)–, encounters a German platoon.  Simplicity of setting sets the drama’s outstanding acting into high relief.  Its final moments bear guaranteed relief, along with a healthy dose of reordering of priorities.

One can be on the lookout for the Southern tradition of “Little Christmas”.  This can arrive on any date after Thanksgiving.  It happens whenever the Holiday Spirit surges, –unexpected, even startling.  Perhaps unwelcome, at first.  I first experienced this phenomenon when a newcomer to Savannah invited me to her first caroling party.  It was so hot, we didn’t even need coats.  I didn’t feel one whit of Holiday spirit.  After singing to a very surprised new neighborhood, my generous friend served cocoa and cider and cookies to the soft-spoken families who had helped create that musical offering.  Afterwards, I helped my friend ‘put the house to bed.’  As we walked to my car, we were given “a rainbow ‘round the moon.”  When I told my hostess that this, to the Indians, is great good luck, she announced, “Well, then, this is Little Christmas!” 

Sometimes others provide the lift, having no idea that one’s heart is leaden in this season.  Last year, I stopped to talk with the man from Vermont who sells trees across from Montgomery Cinema.  “I usually get my greens for the table here, but today I don’t see them,” I blurted.  (It was not his fault I was blind…)  “Right over there, ma’am,” he said, brightly.  “Please, help yourself!”  Soon my car was awash in fragrances of pine, spruce and balsam.  He would not accept a penny for his greens.  That was last year’s Little Christmas.  December 15.

Sometimes, the only avenue open to the grieving is to flee scenes shared with the lost ones.  Other times, it helps enormously to take others — to Nutcracker at McCarter, Messiah at Richardson.  Once I persuaded a new widow to join me at the latter performance.  Reluctantly she agreed – and found herself transported, just walking up the circular staircase she had trod so many times with her husband.  It was her first pleasurable outing since his death, many months before. 

Dreaming up anti-grief rituals is every bit as important as wrapping presents, maybe more-so.  Most of the time, I’ve made it work.  But there was a year, 1990, when I crumpled at the first string of Christmas lights, spurting along a white porch railing.  “Oh, no!,” I cried out in my empty car.  “I’m not ready!”  My dread lay deep, far below tears. 

In my dark car, in ponderous tones, I was suddenly corrected:  “Who are you to place your daughters before My Son?”  Although a poet, no, I do not customarily hear voices.  There was no mistaking this intense challenge.  It was painful, as though someone had lanced a boil without anaesthesia.  I apologized to the Presence whom a humorous friend names “The Great Whomever.”  Each year it seems that decorations go up and carols descend, ever earlier.  However, also every year, that reminder of priorities returns and works its cure.  And every year, there is the prospect of noticing “Little Christmas.”

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