Maggie Mackellar reflects on the myriad emotions that can arise during the holiday season, as the absence of beloved family members looms large.
OVER THE PASSAGE OF TIME, MAGGIE MACKELLAR HAS LEARNT THAT THE FESTIVE SEASON IS A DELICATE BALANCE OF JOY AND SADNESS.
MOST DAYS, THE FARMER AND I down tools and meet for a coffee on the verandah at morning smoko. It’s a ritual we both enjoy. This year, in the lead-up to Christmas, we’ve had to move our chairs further along the stone pavers so as not to disturb a pair of goldfinches who’ve decided the climbing pink rose is the perfect place to make their nest. Goldfinches arrived in Tasmania around the 1860s in bamboo cages, transported by homesick settlers. “Interlopers,” sniffs the Tasmanian sipping coffee next to me. I raise my eyebrows; he sees the contradiction and shuts up. This routine, one practised by my grandparents, my uncle and aunt, and repeated, I suspect, all over rural Australia, makes me appreciate how rituals stretch over time and distance and connect us.
We will be staying home this Christmas. I imagine a lot of people will. We’re hopeful the borders will be open and our far-flung family will be able to return, but we don’t know for sure.
I dread Christmas. I’m sure I am not alone in this. I dread it because it’s heavy with the absence of people who should have been there but aren’t. I dread it out of the remembered trauma of having to put on a brave face for the children when grief was still raw. I once dreaded it so much that I spent a stupid amount of money and took the kids overseas, rather than face Christmas at home. I now dread it because I am at the age where the coordination of all the meals, the shopping, the presents and the hosting falls on me.
I also love Christmas. I love having the house full.
I love the table groaning with food. I love the carols and the rituals of pulling our treasured collection of daggy
Christmas decorations out and plastering the tree with a riot of clashing colour, each ornament a little chest of precious memories. I love the felted partridges my grandmother made, the crooked letters of handmade cards sprinkled with glitter made by my children. I love the wonky angel and the ugly silver elephant. I love my mother’s nativity scene, with the chook that falls on its nose no matter how carefully you position it, and the baby Jesus with the slightly chewed face where he was rescued from the jaws of a puppy.
I love staying up till midnight on Christmas Eve, a glass of scotch at my elbow and carols playing as I wrap presents. I love the feeling of festivity and the joy of the Christmas lights twinkling. I love the giving of gifts on Christmas morning, with everyone in their pyjamas and the kettle constantly singing as the teapot is topped up over and over. And I love the aftermath – the peace of Christmas night with the washing-up done, everyone unable to move for food consumed, and Love Actually on the telly.
I realise the strength of these emotions is a contradiction. I used to hate the contradiction, battled with it and wished I could arrive at a place of peace where there was no longer any pain associated with Christmas. Now, I let the dread sit quietly beside the joy. I can hold the absences of loved ones lightly; miss them without destroying the riches I have in front of me.
Sitting in our new smoko spot, I realise that the beauty of ritual is that it’s elastic. It stretches across distance and time. This Christmas may be different from what
I had hoped, but I’m confident we will still find the threads of connection that tie us all together.