Peace Dove
Throughout my childhood, and as a young adult, I looked forward to my family's annual Christmas gathering. The whole extended family--my numerous aunts, uncles, and cousins--would come together once a year. We packed into Grandma's tiny, over-furnished house, where there was standing room only. We had our traditional foods, like Grandma's springerle cookies, my aunt Agnes' chocolate and coconut cookie bars, and the mulled cider I would simmer on her stove.
Grandma's tiny artificial Christmas tree was always on the side table, decked out with heirloom glass ornaments, those big flashing multicolored lights, and Mylar icicles. Her curio cabinet always bore the same display of model cars painstakingly built by my cousins, little Indian boy and girl candles, small vases, ceramic figurines, a collection of salt and pepper shakers, and carnival glass.
After Grandma passed away twelve years ago, my cousin David began hosting the annual Christmas gathering at his house, which is much roomier--which is a good thing, because by then all my siblings and cousins had children, so the size of the family had grown exponentially.
My name was dropped from the list of Christmas invitees seven years ago, after I had dared to speak up about the childhood sexual abuse (CSA) I had endured. Nearly my entire extended family had cut me off earlier in the year. Initially, that was very painful. I could not understand how they could cast me out so readily, or how they could not show any sympathy or support for a family member in distress. I figured out that for them, it is crucially important to keep the family's dark secret, even if it means casting out one of their members.
Gradually, I came to recognize that those who cast me out--especially without even asking to hear my view--were precisely those who are severely mystified/dysfunctional, and with whom I do not desire contact, anyway. I realized that these were people I saw once a year, and with whom I had no other contact. They did not even send holiday cards, much less call on the phone, or acknowledge the birth of a baby or an anniversary. Our relationship existed just one night per year.
When a thing of importance is lost, it is good to replace it with something new. I thought about what was involved in attending the family's Christmas gathering: two hours of food prep, one hour of getting the kids and myself ready, two hours of driving, plus two or three hours at the gathering. I was surprised to see it added up to seven or eight hours. I considered it seven or eight hours of freed-up time, and decided that I should spend it on something that mattered to me. I put that time and energy into creating the holiday decoration I had wanted to make for years: a light sculpture, of wire and tiny lights, in the shape of a Picasso peace dove.
For the first time, I consciously chose the people and acts that make the holidays meaningful for myself. It was the first step in a personal revolution that continues to foment.
(c) 2005 Shay Seaborne. All rights reserved.
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