Those who believe in a god or gods have an uninformed tendency to see atheists as missing the fundamental parts of simply being human. Yet it’s not just religion that can pick apart and dehumanize our fellow human beings; we find ways to separate each other based on skin or political ideals or how many fingers and toes we have. You name it, someone has found a way to label themselves as righteous or superior. Sorry, friends; that’s 100% ego and no higher powers involved.
What holidays have always required are imagination and necessity. I don’t ‘celebrate’ Christmas on the myth of Jesus anymore than I subscribe to the myth of Santa Claus. But it’s a magical season because of the mix of iconography, the glitter, the characters, the pageantry, the aspirations of artists. You don’t have to believe there’s a ‘reality’ to the magic to admire it. Christmas marks an exciting time of year where I get to pick and choose gifts for people I care about, wrap them with themed paper (or have Amazon stick it in a pretty bag) and anticipate the magic of gifting. It’s a slew of traditional songs, some I’m eager to hear and some I could do without, it’s tension and contemplation, it’s decorating and joining in on the magic.
For the atheists, it’s just a choice to go with the flow of a cornucopia of magical times to choose from or one to bah-humbug and bypass. The most interesting thing about the holidays are not all the religious connotations theists try to enforce but all the layers of pagan celebration they were superimposed over. It’s not our beliefs in particular that make us so interesting but the need to imagine and create and share and reflect on who we are that makes these days stay on my calendar.
There have been low points in life where I’ve wanted nothing to do with holidays. You bargain with the universe to simply keep someone you love on this mortal coil or your heart is just too broken and vulnerable to file in and celebrate anything. And when I’ve loved, and lost, I’ve even wished I could simply believe that something out there could be bargained with, but even the insanity of grief doesn’t conjure a sudden belief or hope that what I want is a wish that can be granted by any benevolent being.
I almost lost my dad to COVID recently and I spent weeks living in a limbo of pain and preparing myself for the worst. Good news doesn’t magically heal that wound either. Brushes with mortality are always hard lessons and the fear always lingers. I was prepared to keep caring for my nephews and trying to give them a good Christmas regardless. I dove into daily tasks robotically and I still haven’t revived my creative muse. I was prepared to give so much up just to hold so much together for those I love.
So I’m drained. I’m tired. I’m skittish. I’m trying. To heal, to find my creative self, to daydream, to find my voice again.
But people are still making light of an illness that nearly killed my dad, made my sister very ill, could very well still take someone else I love or even get worse. I’m very, very sick of people confusing the fantasy of belief with the reality of fact. I’m very, very tired of enduring preventable battles.
Holidays are often attacked for being about greed or entitlement but right now, it’s an anchor for my sanity, a place to warm my frozen heart with kindness and caring and gratitude, that right now, I’m not mourning someone I love as a sad statistic. It’s only been a week since I heard the good news that he’ll be okay for now. I’m wounded and weak and human.
Whether someone chooses to believe it or not, I’m factually human. With my own flaws and dreams and magic to spare. And right now, just trying to keep away from plunging edges, treating myself more gently, trying to comfort a hyperactive brain away from the tumble of violent emotion. With stoic face and silent nighttime sobs. Imagining who I want to be until I am strong enough to be her.
