Today I am dancing around my house dressed in a flowing white skirt, and enjoying my own company. Carols play softly on the radio now as I write; a gently lit tree within my line of vision, strung with pearls and miscellaneous baubles representing the years of my life and the darling angels who have graced it. I began the day treading lightly upon each emotion, cautiously testing for the accustomed pitfalls and dips of despair, but to my surprise there was only happiness waiting for me. I am happy for no earthly reason. 
I find myself thinking of Emily Dickinson and wondering if I am turning into her a little bit, for she was brilliant, reclusive, thought of as eccentric by her community, and had a penchant for wearing white. I'm hardly a recluse, however. I love people and have done theater and taught or painted before audiences and have enjoyed it all immensely. And what is eccentricity anyway? It seems to me that it is marked by being entirely yourself and not allowing the critiques of others to deter you. I admire people like that, though I've wasted much of my life being somewhat of a chamelon for survival purposes. Like Dickinson did, I am learning to love my own company. Certainly I can relate to a writer of long ago who maintained friendships through correspondence. I have an entire network of people whom I encourage and support via facebook or Gmail, and who encourage and support me in return. Writing is a joy; the present I gave myself on this busy week of the dying year. I want to write how I am feeling and the wonders that I have known this season.
It all began weeks ago when I began to experience that weak, empty longing for something unnamed that generally prompts me to wander stores and search for something to buy that will fill the emptiness. Some people with PTSD get suicidal when they have an episode - I have myself, here and there - but more often I find myself blindly wandering the shelves of department stores and bookstores, antique malls and art galleries desperately trying to fill my well with something beautiful that will wipe the ugliness from inside; the emptiness and the fear that comes so tangibly before me that I'm once again a frightened child curled into a ball beneath my blankets with my arms wrapped around my head. I usually manage to talk myself out of actually buying anything when I feel this way; I just flee for the outside world singing about how downtown will help me 'forget all my troubles, forget all my cares...' but always I return home and have to face myself again. Some people with PTSD use drugs or alcohol to hide from the stark reality of their lives - the fact that you can undergo treatment and take medications but you can never techically recover from it - but I need to hold myself to a higher standard than to numb myself in that way. It's more than a need - it's a conviction. For me, it is better to look myself in the eyes and ask myself what it is that I really am longing for.
There are times when I feel that frightened little girl taking over and I want to push her down and press my hands over her mouth. 'Be quiet!' I hiss inside, as if talking to an annoying younger sibling, 'You'll ruin everything!' She's scared and she's messing up my job by bursting into tears when people are mean to her, or allowing people to trample all over her instead of speaking up for herself. I can't begin to describe how aggravating she is! Of course, trying to silence or ignore her is not what is required - I have to treat her with the kindness and compassion that she is lacking inside. I have to teach her how to love herself for who she is, face the realities of life unafraid and able to express herself. She is not wicked or wrong, just undisciplined. I have to see and appreciate her for the beautiful girl that she is. After all, without her I would always be serious and push myself far too hard. And as the Good Doctor once said, "What is the point of being an adult if you can't be childish sometimes?" The childish side of me loves bright lights and pretty packages and believes wholeheartedly in every idealistic whimsy to cross her mind. The childish side just might render my dreams into reality one day, if only I believe in her a little bit.
My best friend at the moment is a charming, gravelly-voiced Vietnam Veteran who is the only person outside my family who understands what it is to have your past relentlessly, involuntarily dog you all of your life through no fault of your own. My siblings understand the pain even if they don't experience it in the same way, but others tend to think I'm making excuses for myself, or making a mountain out of a molehill. This grizzled vet with twinkling blue eyes listens to me, empathizes, and never tells me that my view of my experience is invalid just because others (himself included) have had it worse. Instead, he notices when I'm having a rough time - recognizes the skin-crawling hyperviligence that causes me to jump when people greet me and always makes a point of giving me a conspiratorial wink or small present to boost my morale. Few understand our friendship - they think dirty old men and illicit affairs. It's hard in these times to see something pure and uncomplicated as understanding the struggle of another human being and offering them support. In this I feel very blessed. He brought Christmas treats to work and we shared a long, smiling look that expressed our feelings perfectly: Life is hard, but that makes it all the more important to celebrate the people and the memories that are most precious to us.
I determined that this year I would do something for someone else; give back some of this good that I see in the darkness and thereby spread a little more light. First my children and I sat down and made cards for the grandmother of a friend of mine. I only know this dear lady through my friend, but as I understand it, this is probably her last Christmas. I talked to the kids about what a person might like to hear in that case, and we set about making cards. I thought I was quite clever in simply blessing her and her family this holiday season, but my children out-did me when they wrote of how they are thinking of her, and how very much she must know that she is loved after receiving so many cards. Their simple compassion seemed to clear my head and make the point of the season shine like a path before me. We began plotting what else we might do to make the holiday easier for someone else. My son's friend didn't have a Christmas tree. I agonized over the political correctness of bringing them one - What if they were allergic to pine, or Jewish, or simply disliked the mess of a tree in their home? But the little boy really would like one, so I decided to take a risk. I don't have much money right now. I won The Biggest Loser contest at work because I've been living off soup and crackers for three months. I didn't care: Now it was a matter of the moral development of my children that we undertake this act of generosity. We drove to a tree lot and donated canned goods for the soup kitchen in exchange for a tree. The owners, certain we were supplying a need of our own, piled us with ornaments and tied the tree securely to the hood of my old 1996 jalopy with the windows that don't roll down and the wreath of rust crusting the base of the body. 
It was no fancy tree, but the family accepted it with gratitude and joy. As it turned out, they hadn't had a tree in years, following a near-fatal accident that had left many of the family members brain damaged and living on oxygen. I was shocked at the small space in which they all lived; touched by their love and capacity to give to one another at a time when they had nothing material to offer. They gave me a little snow globe, and the matriarch of the family cried with happiness that someone had taken the time to think of them. I left their home humbled and subdued, grateful to think how my children are with me today, healthy and smart. I, too, am healthy and have what I need. Suddenly my sense of emptiness and loss was gone; my perspective of having what I need, thank God, and never mind all the things I seek for that I cannot define.
Having found Christmas for myself in this way, I thought I was about as content as anyone could be this season. I had what I needed - and it was something that I could give. Lesson learned. Christmas done.
But it wasn't.
Once nearly twenty years ago, I was kind to someone who wasn't necessarily all that kind toward me. I had this conviction that if I showed compassion no matter what, I could change things. I've found since that this approach sometimes doesn't work if the other person is broken enough, but it worked then. I kept concentrating on the good in that person, and eventually they had a change of heart and we found something like friendship between us. I was telling this story to some students of mine last year when we were reading To Kill a Mockingbird and thinking of how the character Atticus Finch could find the courage to bow and smile at Mrs. Dubois who said the most ugly things to him, or how he could pity that hateful racist, Bob Ewell. Coincidentally, the very person I was describing to my students contacted me on facebook that week. I had made far more of an impression than I had imagined - and as proof of that, a beautiful paint-splattered Angel appeared at my back door this past Friday with an envelope that enabled me to buy presents for my children without having to worry about paying my rent, too. Maybe George Baily would look at her and say cynically, "You look like the kind of angel I'd get," but I hugged her, and almost as soon as that happened she was gone. I'd think I'd dreamed it if I hadn't seen my children opening the gifts yesterday and literally jumping up and down and rolling on the floor over them. No kindness is ever wasted. No gift is ever given that is not returned to you in some form. I can't wait to hear how my dear Angel is blessed by her kindness. Perhaps like myself she will have simply felt it as she walked away from my door. I certainly hope so.
From then on I have felt peace. Peace despite not having the ideal life where my kids are with me full time, or in this case not with me on Christmas. Peace despite not having much room, not having the ideal job or the ideal social status or the ideal anything, really. Peace. Peace because it's not about fitting a certain standard of living or being or belonging: It's about loving myself and others equally, believing the best of myself and others, and giving every good and perfect gift received from above. And so I rest at home, Christmas carols on the radio, my tree lit just for me, my old heater blazing like a fireplace and my heart blazing right along with it. 
I guess it took me long enough - five years alone before I finally feel satisfied simply to be myself and enjoy the time alone. I married young partly because I didn't want to face myself; didn't know how to be alone and didn't want to teach myself. This morning as I watched my children open gifts at their father's house, my ex-husband told me that his anger and verbal abuse were a figment of my imagination. He's long since written me off as crazy for leaving a prize like him, and just wanted to make clear that he'd had nothing to do with my unhappiness. I could be angry or bitter, but I didn't feel that at all. I just felt glad to be free and able to see the truth for myself despite what he thinks. Safe and secure back in my own home, I dress in white and look myself in the eyes and pronounce, "You have what you are looking for. It's been inside of you all along."
This Christmas, I might just say the same to you.
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