The Worth of Mirth
It can be really hard to feel joy during the winter holidays when you have cancer or any serious medical problem. If we try, we can hold our fears back enough to feel smatterings of happiness and moments of mirth. The uncertainty about what the coming year will bring can make it feel like a blue Christmas, a blue Hannukah. We are so not bubbling over with festive joy.
The holidays are traditionally a time when we renew our faith in people and in matters unseen, and we try to pile up enough hope to get us through the coming year.
Even in the best of times, the holidays leave many of us exhausted and wondering if they are worth all the effort. The endless shopping, baking, decorating, and gathering with gaggles of family and oodles of friends will deposit us on January 2nd feeling fragmented and weary. We will wonder if we feel any happier, wiser, or more grounded. We’ll think about declining a few of the invitations next year so that we can go through the holidays at a more mindful pace, one that actually nurtures us.
The message we hear in the songs on the radio and see in the specials on television is that everyone should be happy, and if we’re not, then something is wrong with us. Yet the heart of the holidays lives beneath the festive lights and tinsel. These weeks should be about slowing our activities down so we can listen to our hearts, reaffirm what brings our lives meaning, and take care of those for whom the light has grown dim.
You are allowed to step off the holiday ride.
You can say “No” to all party invitations. Pick the social events that interest you and rekindle joy. Ignore the rest. Be with those who allow you to be however you are feeling. Maybe you want to stay home or take a walk through the woods, listen to the land and feel its deep presence.
They will tell you that joy is different than happiness. I don’t care. I’ll take either one. And it’s not an either/or situation. You can feel apprehensive and still be happy.
Some people will be alone on the holidays. If you’re baking and know of someone who might enjoy cookies, or might like to meet for coffee, check in with them. They, we, you, I are still part of a community that cares for each other. Share with those who are willing to listen. Be creative. Use the energy from what troubles you to create art.
All through December, a neighbor across the woods has several votive lights glowing in her back window away from the streetlights out front. Even if I wake up at 4 a.m., I see them bearing witness in the dark. Even though I don’t know why she has them there, the lights let me know that someone believes they make a difference, and they do.
This year I am thankful for the cancer nurses, doctors, support services staff, and volunteers who will take time away from their families to care of the ill during the holidays. And I am grateful for the people in my cancer support group who remind me to laugh.
The gift of the holidays is compassion. No special wrapping required.
© 2025 Mark Liebenow
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