During the holiday season, I miss my mother. I miss talking to her, sending a greeting card, or buying her a little gift. I miss her energy. As much as I complained about driving the 400 miles from the DC suburbs to Huntington, WV, it was our family ritual – the car loaded up with gifts, stopping near Cumberland, MD at the same McDonald’s. One year we saw Santa on a motorcycle drive past. My mother loved that.
Until she passed away in 2021, we gathered at my mother’s large Victorian home on the Ohio River, 21 of us staying up late every night, enjoying board games or singing around the piano. She was never the first one to bed because she didn’t want to miss a thing. Mum put so much effort into hosting us every December — a beautiful, live Christmas tree, delicious meals, carefully-set tables, opening presents one-at-a-time so we could ooh and aah with every reveal. She thrived on having the house full of children and grand-children well into her 90s.
Robin Winn, a sort-of relative (my sister’s sister-in-law), human-design guru and author of three books, talks about “the deep, velvety essence” of Joy surrounding the holidays, a kind of collective energy that begs to be shared with all of humanity. My mother had that joy during the holidays, and I think it’s rubbed off.
After a couple of years of painful transition, I’ve internalized the decades of Mere-Mere’s Christmas joy. A new type of holiday, a quieter one, where I can experience “luminous joy” simply by being with other people in celebration, has taken hold. I decorated my house, I cooked good food, and accepted every holiday invitation that came my way. I am eager to learn more about the “awakened possibilities” that lie ahead.
I still miss my mother, but know she’ll always be with me every Christmas.
Eva K. Sullivan 