The first Christmas after my father moved out, when I was five, my mother decided she’d get herself a Christmas tree. She’d always wanted one, always thought they were pretty. But, growing up in a religious Jewish home, having one had always been forbidden. Even during the thirteen years that she and my dad were married, though they weren’t especially observant, they’d never put up a tree.

So, here it was December of ‘71 and she, newly single, decided what she wanted: A 3’ artificial tree that stood on top of two large boxes in the living room, putting the top of it at about 6’. Nearly a real tree height.

My mom wrapped the tree in garland, hung ornaments, and carefully hung tinsel strands. She was very proud of her Christmas project. Her Christian Projection. We were given one warning, while it was ok to admire the tree, we must not under any circumstance, show it to Grandma.

I was 5. I was excited. I couldn’t help myself.

My grandparents arrived that evening, winter wind blowing in the door with them. I took all of 3 seconds before I shouted, “Grandma! Grandma! Come see our tree!” My grandmother looked confused. My mother looked aghast. I was filled with shame. Why bother having a tree if you weren’t going to revel in it and show it off? More importantly, if we were Jewish, why the heck were we bothering with a tree at all? I couldn’t comprehend it.

Years later, after my mom remarried, our house was taken over by the nearly 25 foot tree my stepdad would saw down from the forest. But decorating it was not a family affair. It was something he and she would do together, in grand isolation from the rest of us. Or, that’s how it felt to me. But I did love the tree, ostentatious as it was. I loved the scent, the colors.

When I married–a Jew–he, like my father, established a “No Tree” Xmas. It was simpler, less work. But I missed the pine, the debate of white vs. colors, steady vs. blinky, all of the rituals that other families across the world were having at once.

This year, like my mom in ’71, I am on my own. If I want to get a tree, I totally could. In fact, the other day, I noticed on Facebook that someone was giving away a box of ornaments. Cool, I thought! Maybe that’s the nudge I need to get started on my holiday decorating. I answered the ad and set out to retrieve them. On my way, I received a snippy reply from their owner. Did I understand fully that these ornaments were to go to someone *in need*? Realizing that they were advertised in the Cascades/Lowes Island/Ashburn section of FB, surely the woman giving them away wouldn’t be shocked that I wasn’t exactly homeless. I wrote back, “Yes. I do. I am in need.” And I drove towards the meeting spot.

Her husband brought the fabric box down and I opened my tailgate. Ooops, I’d forgotten to take out my recent grocery/Christmas gift purchases, as well as the baskets of bottles of Ranch dressing, olive oil, and vinegars I’d brought back from my soon-to-be-ex kitchen pantry the day before. I guess the sight of the bottles tripped a trigger. After I got in the car to drive home, I received a text from the woman, “My husband said there was quite a lot of alcohol in your trunk!!?? Money for beer???? But no money for ornaments????!!!!!”

Could she have been any less filled with the Christmas spirit? I wrote back, “I’ve just come from the grocery. The beer was $5 and is a gift. This is mine and my daughter’s first Christmas on our own. Your generosity is not in vain.” Can you say, “Holy-self-righteous-donator-of-ornaments?”

There it was. Immediately, the shame of being a 5-year-old-Christmas-loving-Jew came flooding back, as did the intensity of unfairness in being unjustly judged. How dare she spew venom on me and my new Christmas ornaments? I so wanted to turn the car around and bring her back her now-tainted Christmas baubles! But I decided no. I’d keep them. Or maybe give them to a friend. But at any rate, I’d allow them to be a symbol of my serenity, rather than my shame. I could not control her need to be harsh, judgmental and critical, but I could decide to not to let her petty heart get to mine.

Difficult endings make for new beginnings. I may not look needy enough for your free bulbs, Lady, but I am. I need Christmas this year. We all do. With all of it’s joy. And, maybe, just maybe, a little bit of Christ-like faith in humanity. And unconditional love.

Earlier in the day, I’d parallel parked on the crowded neighborhood street. Now, I was running late to pick up my kids. As I approached the car, I saw that not only had someone double parked, blocking me in, but also, the driver parked in front of me was struggling to maneuver out of his too-tight space. I could feel myself begin to fume.

Come on! I thought, drive your car, get out of my way! I quickly realized that the double parked car was his, too. He was trying to jockey the cars. But he was inept, inefficient. In my rush, my frustration levels rose.  

I don’t have time for this! But, I took a deep breath and outstretched my arms, indicating just how much space he had available to reverse before smashing into my minivan. It took him six or so passes to get the right angle, but once he did, he pulled forward and was free. I almost was able to exhale.

Before I could rejoice, a second driver suddenly came swooping in, blatantly stealing the newly opened space.

Whatever patience I had mustered was gone. Oh, no, no, no, you don’t! I need to get my car out of here! I marched up to the driver’s side window and knocked on the glass. But, instead of cursing him out (what I desperately wanted to do) I explained: the driver who had just pulled out, was freeing the space for his other vehicle that was double parked next to mine. And I needed to leave. Yesterday.

The driver indignantly said, “No. I’m here. It’s fine.” But it wasn’t fine. He didn’t get it. I wasn’t letting him get away with stealing the space, keeping me trapped.  

So for the second time in 10 minutes, with my temper screaming at me to let loose, I took a deep breath instead. I used my words. Practiced kindness. “Listen. He needs to move his car into this space. As soon as he does, I’ll leave, and you can have my space.” 23 words. That’s all. Tensions dropped. Smiles broke out. The formerly grabby driver relented, nodded, and pulled out of the stolen space. The parallel-parking-challenged man appreciatively touched my arm. “Thank you,” he said.

I got into my car. Gave a breath of gratitude for composure, empathy, patience. Turned the ignition and drove off to get my girls.

What does it take to be happy?

When I was a little girl, the hints that my grandmother dropped made me believe that, certainly, love wasn’t enough. If you were savvy, she’d say, you’d also find a way to have money. And intellect, too. If you were smart, you’d marry a man who was educated,  because that would less you to a higher station. And elevating your station, that was the ultimate goal.

For my immigrant grandmother, who never went to college, but who could finish the daily Washington Post crossword in under 10 minutes, happiness was something that you were granted by another person. Others were the sources. Find the right other, and boom! You’d be all set. And if that other also happened to make a good living? Well, then. Even better!

I internalized this message. So, as a girl, I developed crushes instead of skills, pursued boys instead of interests. I understood the endgame was to marry well. I wasn’t sure my chances, but I knew the charge.

So when I met my husband, a lovely, educated, stable man, I convinced myself that he was the right choice, for my grandmother. I dismissed my own desires to be seen and heard, not to be judged for being my silly, goofy self. I convinced myself that my need to be social, affectionate, warm did not matter as much a paid off mortgage, nice vacations, good credit. But here’s the thing: I was lonely. And loneliness does not bode well for boosting one’s happiness.

So, the pursuit of happiness. What does it really mean? It means being true to yourself, practicing self-kindness, granting yourself the freedom to pursue the activities and ideals that you want: Not someone else’s idea of what’s right for you.

I have decided to leave my marriage. A gut wrenching decision. And one that makes zero financial sense. But, I can feel my spirit begin to peek out from the shadows, to look toward the light, and to begin to dream about what possibilities, what internal happiness may be waiting for me.

As a massage therapist for Hospice, I visit you in your daughter’s home; McMansion. $2M at least, plus the thousands spent at Home Goods for decorative wall art. You lie there, slowly succumbing to the cancer that invaded your breast last spring, while you and a friend toured Spain and Italy. Travels you’d put off for nearly too long. Now, you rest in the large sunroom that used to be for recreation, your wig, your nail polish, your bedazzled baseball cap on the covered billiards table. I work delicately. Massaging your hands, your feet, while a woman, not the one you gave birth to; she’s asleep on the family room sofa, sits and waits. Your aide. She has traveled all the way from her home in Uganda to tend to you: check your tubing, administer your meds, keep your mouth and tongue moistened. Last visit, you were engaged, chatty. But today, you sleep through the massage. While I work, your aide listens to a live church service via the internet from her congregation back home. Miracles are everywhere. In this too big room, in this too big house, the afternoon sun glares at us, bakes us. Not unlike, I imagine, the African sun she’s remembering. I watch: her hands reaching up into the air and waving. God is good! Her face beams with light from the song of her choir, 6,000 miles away. And across all that distance, for a moment, in this room, with your life nearing it’s end, we give praise.

I’m an LMT and a few months ago I began volunteering for hospice. I provide massages to patients in the final months or weeks of their lives. I meet them long after the awful diagnosis has been given, long past any possible hope for recovery. By the time we meet, they know that time is short and that every moment left is precious.

There’s a particular peace that emanates from someone in this, last stage, of life. There’s also a keen noticing that goes on. I see the way they watch the noontime light in the garden, or how their head tilts slightly toward the overheard voice of a loved one. It’s truly beautiful, this appreciation and acceptance of the smallest of things. Giving up control is the hardest part. But my clients embrace the surrender that surrounds them.

A few weeks ago, I saw for the first time a man stricken with advanced dementia. No longer able to walk, I massaged him from a seated position in his wheel chair. Despite the bleak circumstances of my being there, the time I spent with him and his wife was sweet a respite. After 25 years, my husband and I were separating. I’d moved out, and was somewhat homeless, couch surfing and airbnb-ing, until finally, I’d landed in a furnished sublet apartment. It has been quite an unsettling thing for me, and yet, here was this couple, in their 70s and 80s, my client and his wife of fifty years, gracefully coping with the day to day struggles of approaching death. Despite the uncertainty, the timing, despite all the new faces and accents coming in and out of their home, the nurses, practitioners, assistants, social workers, cleaning ladies, now feeding, dressing, soothing, my client. Despite the busy-ness of dying, my client and his wife remained calm, remained one.

On one afternoon, when my client needed to take some medicine, but wasn’t in a mood to cooperate opening his mouth, his wife took the syringe from his nurse, held it to his mouth and said sweetly, but sternly, in their native German, “Open.” And like a little bird, the 83 year old dying man did what he was told. This moment was so intimate, the trust between them so visible. At the beginning of perhaps, of the end of my marriage, I was witnessing true commitment. The wife returned to the kitchen and I reached for my client’s hand. I thought about their love and this house filled with keepsakes from a lifetime of travels. Books, paintings, carved furniture. I thought how unfair it was that she was losing this man that she loved so dearly. And I, was ending a marriage that I didn’t hold dear enough. A tear slipped down my face. And when it did, my client, riddled with dementia, turned his gaze toward me. And with the slightest movement, touched his finger to his cheek. He’d felt my sadness.

He passed away two days after my final visit. The last time I saw him, he was bedridden, connected to oxygen and morphine. They say that the dying need permission to go and that our life force leaves us through the head, the crown chakra. So on that last day, I held his hands, gave him permission and massaged his head with a bit of lavender. I told him, go. Be well. Your work is done. You have loved. Very well, you have loved.

I’ve heard recommended a few times recently that if you’re writing a story, or planning an event, it helps to start at the end, see the complete vision, and work your way backwards, thus creating the pathway for arriving at your destination.

The Ending. That’s the hardest part. It’s blurry. I can’t quite fathom it. Beneath my senior yearbook photo, my future plans read, *Small, midwestern liberal arts college (name withheld to protect the innocent), Psychology, Fall in love, Be happy.

No mention of kids, or marriage, specifically. But I definitely got those. Graduated, too, though not as a psych major (a crush on a boy DJ on the campus radio station, lead me to the Communications department. I wound up a Mass/Comm major.) I did the fall in love thing and got married after college, though the “be happy” bit has been more of a challenge.

I guess true happiness, or true love, remains elusive when, deep down, you expect that it will come from somewhere or someone outside of yourself.  And in order to get love, you really have to be able to first give it, starting with yourself. Unlike that scene in When Harry Met Sally, self love isn’t so much something you can fake, cause you’d know. So, really really, you have to believe that you are worthy of love.

It’s a terrifying idea, worthiness. And yet, I have many friends. Even now, as I’ve been trying on transparency in my relationships, telling the whole truth and being completely vulnerable, revealing warts and all, I am learning that I am worthy. In fact, my friends who loved so called, “perfect me,” still love “flawed me,” maybe even, a little bit more so.

So I guess the sign that hung in my childhood kitchen was true: Not the one that said, “Fuck Housework,” though I could get behind that concept. But rather, the one with the little skunk that said, “A friend is someone who knows all about you, but loves you anyway.” Shouldn’t THAT be the kind of friend that I am to myself? Whoa, isn’t that what God is? Someone who knows all about you and loves you anyway?

A friend shared this beautiful Hafiz poem earlier today:

You could become a great horseman
And help to free yourself and this world
But only if you and prayer become sweet lovers.

It is a naive man who thinks we are not engaged in a fierce battle
For I see and hear brave foot soldiers all around me going mad,
Falling to the ground in excruciating pain

You could become a victorious horseman
And carry your heart through this world
like a life giving sun,
But only if you and the Great Spirit
become secret lovers.

What if, rather than being in control, rowing upstream, I put the oars inside the boat and just see where the current, the love, takes me? What then? Maybe then, I’ll be able to begin, at the end of my story.

(Blog post title borrowed without permission from Dar Williams. Though I don’t think she’ll mind terribly).