Each December, on a cold day when there is no snow, I gather evergreen for a wreath. I spread the boughs on a sheet in my living room with a spool of dark green floral wire, wire cutters, hand pruners, and an assortment of decorations that always includes pine cones of varying sizes. The finished wreath is always different, according to what I am feeling at the time, and always beautiful. This year’s creation is my most flamboyant yet, with a wide red and gold garland twined around it and an enormous matching bow made of vibrant and velvety ribbon topped with a perfect pine cone strung around with brassy jingle bells. It has been a year worth marking in such a way. As H. Byron Ballard writes in her book, Seasons of a Magical Life:
The intention of placing a circular wreath on the entryway to your living space reminds you, with every entrance and exit, that the year moves forward, the times change. If your personal life has been especially challenging through the darkening time, the wreath is a symbol of all that is possible with the Solstice. That includes healing for you and a culmination of those challenges into a course of action that moves your life in a different and more satisfying direction1.
My personal life has been especially challenging. Right around the beginning of the endarkenment season, which starts with Samhain (or Halloween), I began a course of herbal supplements to control my mood, anxiety and depression, which is always worst during the winter. Since my body tends to not respond well to prescription medications, I was much relived to find a doctor who prescribes more natural medications, and even more relieved when the supplements started to work. And work quite well. Within a few weeks I would stop and catch myself…not tensed up with anxiety for a change, but relaxed. Happy. Aware of the many things I had to do before Christmas, but not feeling stressed. It was like I imagined “normal” must be like, a state of being I had never experienced. It was incredible. And short-lived.
The really sucky thing about transitioning out of a state of constant limbic system response, apparently, is that all the things you’ve been running from for, like, twenty years, all crash back in. Addiction is like this, so I’ve been told. The substance or behavior is never the core problem, it’s just what is used to distract from or cope with the core problems. My anxiety, depression, and mood swings were symptoms I could focus on while still running and hiding from, or fighting, my real problems. Which, for me, center around a series of unprocessed childhood traumas beginning when I was seven. Once I finally shut off that fight/flight/freeze response I started to feel like a traumatized child again. It was not pretty. It was not fun. It was a lot of time needing to sob or scream or just be held for a good long while. And a lot of it seemed to be centered around Christmas for one reason and another.
The closer it got to Christmas, the more fun activities we did with the kids in celebration of the season, the more pronounced became my dread. I barely slept on Christmas Eve, so clenched with anxiety that I could not relax even with the supplements. Christmas morning I woke up and took a shower, standing under the hot water for a long time. When I started to cry, I realized that I was mourning the loss of my childhood Christmases. Christmas was my favorite holiday as a little kid. I loved decorating the tree and bringing in evergreen branches. We had this angel tree topper that lit up two candles the angel held in her hands when we plugged it in. It felt like magic. The year I turned seven we moved from California to Ohio, and never celebrated Christmas again after that first winter, not until I was married. A small thing, perhaps, replacing one holiday (Christmas) with another (Chanukah), but it happened during a time of great upheaval: two big moves in just over a year, the death of my dad’s father whom we had just gotten to know, a large shift in parenting philosophy that meant I was getting spanked for the first time, and I never understood what was so wrong with a pretty tree and delicious cookies anyway. The really hard part of processing childhood issues with an adult brain is that your body still feels the inflamed emotions your child-self experienced, but your mind refuses to make the connection because it just seems “silly,” insignificant, not worthy of the big deal you’re making of it. Once the connection was made (literally on Christmas morning), I was able to cry and let it go and enjoy the day. Better almost too late than too late, I guess. Even small losses, left unacknowledged and unmourned, can turn into big hurts.
“…healing for you…”
And so, the year moves forward. In three days the calendars will reach their end, and be replaced with fresh ones. The days are growing longer again, even if we can’t see it yet, and seed catalogs are already turning up in my mailbox. I have told myself to be patient, I won’t open them until the New Year is begun and my Christmas decorations boxed up again for next year. I am not yet ready to move out of this season, hard as it has been, with all that I have learned. Before I do there is an important intention to set for next year.
But wait…let’s make this official. Strike the match and set it to the wick, all four of them in the big new Italian Bergamot and Sandelwood candle I got for Christmas this year (intention number one: buy a new box of matches, one with sides that aren’t worn almost smooth). It is more difficult to focus on four flames, my eye travels from one to another, around and around, a square wheel of sorts. That is appropriate. Deep breath, again. I am calm. I am ready.
This year I will set no intentions for myself that sound like orders or make me feel shame.
“…and a culmination of those challenges into a course of action…”
Not, “I will do yoga for at least fifteen minutes every day and get outside for at least a half hour.” Instead, I feel calmer and am less stiff and sore when I get outside and do yoga as many days out of the week that I can.
Not, “I will go without sweets during January to make up for the sugar-filled holiday weeks.” Instead, My body does not feel well when I have had so much sugar and fatty foods. I want to eat more greens and simple foods and drink more herbal teas this month to help my digestive system recover.
Not, “My house is a disaster. I need to clean one room really well each week until it is back in order.” Instead, I am really excited about all the new things that I will be doing this spring! In preparation, it would be good for me to clean out some old clutter and make room—physically and mentally—for the good things to come.
Not, “I need to practice contentment and meditate more.” Instead, This moment. Right here, right now…this is beautiful.
Not, “I will go hiking or take a candlelight bath each week to give me the space to connect with the Divine.” Instead, I feel most alive and connected in the woods, or in water. I like feeling so alive and connected.
Not, “This is the year I won’t gain weight over the winter so maybe I can finally fit into those cute shorts by summer.” Instead, What I need is not comfort food. What I need is rest, sunlight (or at least fresh air), exercise, creative challenges, and social and personal connection. These take a little more effort, but feed me in much healthier ways.
Not, “I really need to start getting more sleep.” Instead, My brain and body have been through so much, and need rest in order to heal. I can love myself by giving my body what it needs. Denying my needs is self-sabotage, and is that really worth finishing the movie so I can fold the rest of the laundry?
“…that moves your life in a different and more satisfying direction.”
Each December I make a wreath, knowing it will not last the winter. The time I spend gathering branches and other materials and binding them together into a slightly misshapen circle, fragrant and decorative, are worth it for the joy I feel each time I approach my front door and see it hanging there. A symbol, not only of the season, of festivity and life amid death, but also of time itself: fleeting, and precious. What does my best life look like to me? A lot like this one, but enough. My life enough for me, fulfilling my needs. Knowing that I am enough, as I am, for myself, my family, my friends. The wheel turns, and I turn with it. My face to the future, not set but open, welcoming. Not striding into it but gliding, deliberate as the earth that hangs on nothing and still spins.
Ballard, H. Byron. Seasons of a Magical Life: A Pagan Path of Living. Weiser Books, Newburyport, MA, 2021.