All the Little Altars

It's the dead of winter

CW: death, grief, mental health, extended metaphors

From my bed, I can see three brass elephants. They are lined up biggest to smallest, right to left. They sit in front of a print by one of my favorite artists that says, “Tough as nails.”
*
It is deep winter. It is so very deep winter. I don’t think anyone could argue that. Well, except maybe our Southern Hemisphere friends.

“It is deep winter and I am ready for it to be over.” is what I said to my friend David during a meeting the other day. “But I have journal entries and a mood tracker that says I feel like this every year so at least it’s not a surprise.”
*
The story of these brass elephants, one of my most prized possessions, is that my great Uncle Jim got them for my Grandmother on his travels abroad. I don’t actually know exactly where they are from. And beyond knowing that they were acquired before I was born, I don’t know when they are front. I’m not even particularly sure why my great Uncle Jim spent so much time abroad although I’m inclined to say it was work-related. What that work was, I couldn’t say.

Amidst all the questions, or possibly because of them, he’s a bit of a mythic figure to me. What I do know is that he’s important to my Mom, particularly after her Dad (my Grandfather and namesake) died when she was 12. What I do know is his gift to my Grandmother became her gift to me. What I do know is that this gift is one of the the reasons why ‘death’ became a little less of an abstract concept to me when I was young.
*
Many of my friends are self-proclaimed “summer people.’ Or people who prefer heat to anything.

I’m not that sort of person. I’m not good in the heat. I wilt, become a blob, start to feel weird and sick. I used to be a “spring person,” preferring the kind of warmth that comes with the reawakening—coming out of the deep cold into a temperate chill. These days, I’m more of a “fall person” or, more accurately, a “spooky season” type. I embrace the relief of coming out of the sweltering and humid months. I love the surprise of the first cooler, more bearable day. Yes, much like spring, the weather change into fall is something we wait for, but in a different way.

I need that weather change to slow down, to extinguish the flames from my heels. I don’t need those flames to warm my bones, to reanimate my skeleton so the rest of my body can operate in the world again. I need a light coat.
*
When I was a kid, the brass elephants lived on the long side-board in my Grandmother’s dining room. It was not uncommon to find me standing in the walkway between the kitchen and living room admiring them. At the time, brass wasn’t as common an accent in American homes (at least as far as I remember), so I was drawn to their uniqueness among everything that surrounded them. They aren’t polished brass; they have the relief markings of an elephant’s skin. They looked different. They felt different in my hands. And I loved them.

Once, while play with the elephants, I stopped my grandmother as she passed by. “Grandma.” I said.

“Grandma, can I have these?” (Ah, the brazenness of children.)

“Oh. Well, maybe when I die, sweetie.”

“Okay. Thanks Grandma.”

It may seem a morbid exchange to have with an eight-year-old but it wasn’t really. It wasn’t a conversation with some heavy meaning. It was a conversation that just was. That’s all.
*
Are there “winter people?” I’m not sure I know any. I know people who love the first quiet snowfall, diving head-first into their sense of Lorelai Gilmore wonder. I know people who love the holidays, wait for them all year long, start their countdowns for the next holiday the day after the previous one ends. I know people who love to be cozy, to put on sweatshirts and knit caps, hiding under as many blankets as possible. I know people who like hot toddys and love soup. But I don’t think I know anyone who would call themselves a “winter person.”

Winter is a hard season to love. The whole thing is a slog. It’s the darkest time of year. Getting to the half-way point is like being forced up a steep mountain path that is becoming more and more covered with each step. Once at the apex, to get back down the mountain means traversing a path you can no longer see for all the snow.

Maybe the snow helps and you can slide easily into spring. More likely the climb down is slower than the ascent, more treacherous. There are unknown and surprising obstacles. There's no doubt you will fall down on the path. The question is how many times and how severe the injuries will be.
*
My Grandmother died when I was 20. I got the call early in the morning on my silver Nokia flip phone with the T-9 texting. I may have even still been using the Will & Grace theme song as my ringtone.

I don’t think the call woke me up. I knew what was coming. I’m pretty sure I felt a little jolt the moment it happened. The phone call was just the confirmation.
*
I’ve talked about my confusion as to why the “New Year” happens in the middle of a season where many of us can’t even be outside without three layers under a full coat. That confusion also extends to political things. I’m sure it’s by design that at least one of the biggest political events happens in the dead of winter. “By design” is usually how it works.

Regardless, it adds to the path down the mountain. Some encounter it as boulders in the way. They are varying sizes, varying difficulties to get around or over. This year, it feels like there are an insurmountable amount with more and more every day. Others encounter it as one large boulder. They hop on and ride it down the mountain as it bulldozes everything in its path. Sure it’s fast and, depending on who you are, fun. But it only remains fun if you refuse to turn around when you get to the bottom.
*
After finals for the quarter, I started the long journey to the funeral. First to my parents’ house. And then to my Grandmother’s hometown, the town my Mom and her sisters grew up in. The town that would cradle one of my favorite members of the family in perpetuity.
*
If the mountain metaphor isn’t doing it for you, I’ll say this: the dead of winter can make a dumpster fire feel less scorching. By design.
*
I can’t remember if I helped with the apartment clean-out at all. I also can’t remember if I was eager to find and claim the elephants for myself. It didn’t matter.

It didn’t matter because when I got there, they were already set aside for me. Everyone knew. In that moment, knowing that they were mine no question, I remember feeling like I was really cared for.
*
Winter is not a time anyone is set up for success, in my opinion. Even for the mentally healthiest among us, it’s tough. So for those of us with Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD) and/or depression—clinical, situational, and otherwise—it’s extra weighty. Everything—emotions, memories—are close to the surface while simultaneously being far away and hard to access.

The fall feels like a dream and the spring feels like wishful thinking. Winter feels like, actually, everything should stop and we should all take a nap and hibernate for a bit.

But it doesn’t. Things don’t stop.
*
“I need an altar,” I said out loud to myself.

Midweek, when I was trying to figure out whether it was Wednesday or Thursday, I realized what date it was. It was the second anniversary of my Aunt Cathy’s death, a death that because of its speed still feels very shocking to me. No wonder I was out-of-sorts that day, this whole week.

The body knows what it's holding, even if the mind is slow to catch it.

Feeling this build-up of emotion—grief, sadness, affection—made my body tingle. I felt like I had nowhere to put it. So I said, “I need an altar,” out loud to myself.

And then I realized that wasn’t true.

I don’t need one big centralized altar. (Although given more space, that is something I would like.) I don’t need one altar because there are little altars all around my house. I wear little altars. I have little altars permanently inked onto my body.

There are the brass elephants of course. There’s my paternal Grandmother’s rosary, her headscarf, her high school class ring. There are my Aunt’s Waterford Crystal candlestick holders. There are little tchotchkes that hold past versions of myself.

There are spaces where I set the universe so I can remember everything that is bigger than me.

There are little notes that remind me of everyone who has gone before me in ways both mundane and tragic, that paved the way. There are images on my arms and legs that remind me to hold gratitude for these people in the same moments I feel sadness.

There are reminders of people I’d rather forget and of people I’ll never forget.
*
Without realizing it, I was making meaningful little moments through my living space. I was making meaningful little moments on the surface of my skin and imprinting them on my soul so they will never leave me.

Because ultimately, that’s the thing I find so difficult about winter. When there is more light, when the weather is more conducive for leisurely walks and a marathon of activities, when outside sounds more like levity and laughter than strain, I usually don’t have to think about where I put the weighty things on my mind. They go out to play more often on their own, only coming in when it’s too dark to see. In winter, if I’m not cognizant of these heavy feelings as they come up, they just live in my body. They become long-term residents exploiting squatters rights and I start to barely register them. On days when I find myself craving a big altar, it’s because I have forgotten all my little altars.

We need all our altars to live so we can live too.

It’s harder to grasp onto importance in the dead of winter, with frozen fingers. It is harder to travel on icy ground. It’s harder to live when it’s gray outside and inside. But it’s not impossible.

It’s just about, I think, remembering to set up places for or hold onto objects, photos, writings, memories where the melancholy can live on its own. Where it can be accessible when you need it.

And where you can put it away when you don’t.

---

I was supposed to take tap lessons in 2020 so…now feels fitting too.

THANK YOU for reading. Very seriously, thank you. If you’d like to learn more about the newsletter, here’s my About page. It’s about…me…and this…newsletter.

Paid subscriptions are always nice so if you want to upgrade, I wouldn’t stop you. Or, if a one time support is more your thing, my venmo is @samjeancoop. No matter what—paid, not paid, holding hands with your melancholy—I’m just grateful you’re here.

Sharing is also nice. Sharing is a great kind of support. Sharing is, in fact, caring.