Don't Wish Your Time Away

The holidays can be so lonely for so many. Yesterday on Third Avenue, I saw a woman in a business suit curled into a fetal position on the sidewalk. A few hours later, I saw a man screaming into his backpack. I asked both if they were okay, but my words felt useless, like holding up a butterfly net against a tsunami of despair.

When my grandmother died, I went through a period of wishing Christmas would pass quickly. I'd count down to January 2, when stores returned to normal hours, and distract myself by planning the new year.

Eventually, though, I realized it wasn’t just about Christmas or my grandmother. Since boyhood, I’ve always wished my time away. Wake me up when it’s all over, as the song goes. And it hit me: one day I will wake up, and it will be all over. And what will my life have been, aside from a series of wishes?

The other day, my teacher gave a talk in which he made the point that “This too shall pass” is not the basis for a happy life. "Sure," he said. "This too shall pass. But it will also return, again and again. The question is: what are we learning from all these repetitions?"

One thing I’ve been learning is that loneliness isn’t cured by having people around. Loneliness isn’t something to cure at all. It's the expression of parts of ourselves we tend to push away. We need to spend time with those parts, not just to heal their wounds, but to receive their gifts.

Please don’t wish your time away. You have so little of it. Whatever is arising in your life and mind, welcome it as a Christmas guest. You may have no feast prepared, no wisdom to share. Sit with it anyway. As my grandmother would say: good company is enough.

Saul Leiter, "Snow" (1960)