The Other Side of the Gray | Catherine Viel

By Catherine Viel, December 25, 2022

(Golden Age of Gaia)

December 24, 2022

Well, I lay my head on the railroad track
Waiting on the double E
But the train don’t run by here no more
Poor, poor pitiful me…
Lord, have mercy on me
~Warren Zevon, Poor, Poor, Pitiful Me



It’s Christmas Eve afternoon, and that peculiar holiday loneliness has set in. Quite a bit of my mental space is taken up with thinking I should be doing something other than whatever I am doing. This is exacerbated by what many consider the biggest holiday of the year. The illogical certainty that everyone else is in midst of happy holiday bustle with family and friends, while I’m not, sits like lead in my gut.

I feel as if, unlike me, most people, by the time they hit their mid-sixties, have a cornucopia of spouses, children, and grandchildren with whom they can share this holiday space. I dredge up some obligatory gratitude for the good health of self and my nearest and dearest, but it’s not quite enough to overcome holiday isolation syndrome.

*****



I know this is a mood, the sadness and self-pity. I’ve opened the door to these feelings by sitting down and not trying to distract myself. I want to leap up and do laundry, empty the dishwasher, make lunch. I don’t want to be in the company of this tight throat and borderline depression.

And yet…on the other side of the gray, there’s a limning of light, like sun just behind the clouds. Acknowledging these uncomfortable sensations, honoring them with the gift of my attention, feels unpleasant but necessary.

*****



A favorite carol, The Holly and the Ivy, comes on the radio. I still feel heavy with grayness, but also hungry and yearning for clean clothes. I decide there’s nothing wrong with using chores to chase away self-pity and sadness.

Out of nowhere the thought occurs: next year, I’ll book a seat on the Santa Barbara trolley and take a magical nighttime tour of the lights, and belt out carols with strangers while we bucket over our poorly patched streets.

This illusory promise of faraway fun has inexplicably lifted me from the doldrums. A tiny smile is the most I can manage in acknowledgment of the gift, but it is a genuine smile, and it’s good enough for now.