The kids and I brought home our Christmas tree last night: a big, spindly, beautifully-smelling ten-footer. We drove out to the tree lot and cut it ourselves, my son and I taking turns lying on the ground with the bow saw, pushing and pulling against the grip of the wood on the blade, snow filling our boots, the ground a mix of slush and mud as the temperature climbed above freezing. The two of us dragged the tree from the back-forty up to the barn while my daughter, newly-turned 16, drove the car back to meet us.

So much of this scene is different from past Christmases that it incites reflection on what can only be called a time of transition for all of us. If I stop and consider, as one is wont to do this time of year, I realize how many steps forward I’ve taken. Each of those steps feels hard-won, and each carries with it the weight of leaving behind a past life that was perfectly fine until it wasn’t. That my son, who for years complained about our sojourns into the woods for a tree, now insists on maintaining this tradition, and my daughter is now old enough to drive the car to help, are both reminders that life goes on, even at those times when we wish it didn’t. Transitioning from one place in life to another always causes the ground to feel uncertain beneath your feet. When that transition wasn’t planned and in fact arrives as a shock, this is even more the case. Second-guessing and regret often accompany each step.

A ten-foot tree would never have fit in our old farmhouse, built as it was with low ceilings so as to conserve heat. The very fact that we have this tall tree is a result of forward movement as we celebrate Christmas this year in a house we don’t own. I miss Christmases in our old house, where I decorated so much, I believe I could have convinced visitors that Norman Rockwell had married Martha Stewart and settled into our home. Considerable effort was put into making everything perfect. I realize now (as I transition to purposely spending my time in other ways) that it usually resulted in a beautiful setting and a very cranky decorator. 

This year, we are in a rental home—a way station along this path. As mentioned in an earlier post, I sold our farmhouse this past summer, unable to deal with the constant work and expense of maintaining it. I live in the rental home while my daughter finishes high school. Once she’s away at college, I will move into a renovated loft in the Midtown area of Detroit. It’s an old Jeep factory, and I currently own a shell of space that will be built out over the next year. It is walking distance to many things that are important to me: Eastern Market, Comerica Park, Whole Foods, the Institute of Arts, the Detroit Symphony, a community garden, three galleries, a nationally-known bakery, multiple restaurants. I can’t contain my excitement when I think about it. My recent meeting with a newly-hired architect resulted in a change of plans whereby the room with fifteen large windows and tons of natural light will be my writing space. The kitchen now opens up into the living room so that I can cook and entertain. I cannot consider this space without smiling.

I also used to bake cookies this time of year—thirty dozen by one count. They were gifts for friends and service providers, they accompanied us to every party we attended. On the second Friday after Thanksgiving, I would begin at 7 a.m. and finish around midnight. Kevin would call and check-in from work a few times through the day, getting an updated grocery list of items that had run out, and later, collecting my dinner order for Chinese carry-out. Once home, he sampled each kind, a smile on his face like that of a child in his favorite bakery where everything is free.

I have cooked and baked very little over the past three years, and couldn’t even begin to think about recreating the annual “cookie baking day extravaganza.” There is no longer the time, and I just don’t have the heart for it. But I did bake this year for my cooking group cookie exchange. I am grateful for my cooking group. They will never realize what their friendship (over half of them being brand new friends that I had never met prior to our first gathering) has meant to me this year. Together we have made numerous trips to Eastern Market in Detroit where we discover new things to eat, and befriend vendors like the lady who, with her son, sells the best turkey and veggie burgers, or the completely engaging couple who run the Middle Eastern store—they treat us like their long-lost daughters each time we visit. Because of this, I've returned to cooking with renewed interest and purpose. For my month of hosting our group I prepared—as a tribute to my parents and grandparents—an authentic Southern meal complete with chicken and dumplings, collard greens, green beans, mashed potatoes and peach cobbler. 

Tonight, my children and I will decorate the tree. Ornaments are now kept in a storage unit instead of the dusty attic of our old house. I’ll look at each one (and we’ll need each one in order to cover this huge tree) and know of the memories it represents. There are ornaments from trips to family reunions, our first trip south for Kevin to meet my extended family, two trips to Europe. I have the ornament we purchased while on our honeymoon and the ornament I gave him on our 25^th wedding anniversary. Some ornaments I made by hand and several were made by our children. 

This year, I’ll place three new ornaments on the tree—small, beautiful, hand-crafted bangles given to me by friends as we celebrated at a holiday dinner last week. The four of us are all single women who happened to live in the same neighborhood—two divorced and two widowed. We gather each month at one of our homes or at a local restaurant and share equal amounts of celebration and commiseration. They (and many others) were there for us during Kevin’s illness and then for me after his death. I cherish these friendships as well, and find myself hoarding away little incidents and big news as I go through the month, in order to share with this group who understands better than most what this new life entails.

There are other recent events that cause both smiles and contemplation: I reconnected with a wonderful friend last week that I hadn’t seen since my wedding day. Twenty-seven years evaporated like the steam from our coffee as we caught up on our lives and made plans to keep in better touch. It’s always good to be reminded that I can reclaim some of the fun of the past and bring it along with me.

My siblings and I have started a new tradition of meeting just before Christmas to lay a wreath at my parents’ grave and have lunch together--a new tradition that brings sadness and laughter colliding together. As part of my move, I found and watched several old videos of my family sharing Christmas Eve. Time moved in fast motion as I pulled one video out and popped the next one in, a year having passed in the moments in between. So much time and so little; so much change.

Old friends and new, just-born traditions and those well-worn, all bring comfort; they occupy in different ways the empty space that’s created when those so important are no longer here. I permit myself the time for sadness and hope that it settles into a place that also allows for the joy that springs up along the path when I’m not looking. 

Here’s wishing each of you a safe, joyous, peaceful, holiday season filled with both reflection and hope, and surrounded by those you love.