Chapter 19

Winter break was hard on my Mom. She and my dad had met during the holiday season, and as a result, it was a time full of additional meaning.

This would be the second holiday season without my Dad. While my sister and I tried to maintain traditions as best we could, his tangible absence colored most of it. A man of routine, his habits were markers counting down the days until Christmas - like his resistance to a live Christmas tree, which he voiced each year. He always complained about the hassle of finding a good one, the growing expense, the process of hauling it off the car, through the garage, and into the living room. He failed to notice that, though he assisted in the search each year, it had been quite some time since he had actually moved a large pine. My sister and I had taken over the responsibilities several years back.

Like clockwork, always two weeks before Christmas, our family would be found scouring a tree lot within a few miles of our house, debating the fullness of branches and the ideal symmetry of a tree’s shape. Sometimes we were lucky, and found our “perfect” tree in one shot. Sometimes, we went to several places before we found one that fit. Either way, we would eventually coax Dad into buying a tree that was larger than he thought necessary and usually a little more expensive than he thought was reasonable. And then, once we had gotten it standing, he would begin commenting on how nice it looked, how great the house smelled, how happy he was.

I was by myself this year. The first time I would buy our family tree. The first time I would decorate it alone. My mom found the ritual overwhelming, and though she would appreciate the symbol once it stood, the process of creating it was still too trying for her.

I spent more than an hour at the same lot, deciding between three trees. All were quite nice fir trees, with soft, grey-green bristles and thick limbs. But, in each, I thought I could discern imperfections which could potentially spoil the most important symbol of our family traditions. The decision weighed heavily, and I felt the responsibility bearing down on me. It was crucial, especially this year, to get it right.

I finally decided on the one I felt had the best height-to-width proportions. It had a sturdiness, a strength, which resonated with me. Its limbs were straight and erect, as though they had withstood the elements well – had steadfastly faced the gales of long winters. It was full and proud and resilient.

At home, as I hung the ornaments one by one, I found myself submerged in memories, each bringing combinations of joy, grief, hope, pain. I lingered on one in particular. Dad, each year, bought an ornament for my mom, my sister, and myself. Gifts he generally left to my mom, but this one token was always a secret, which he relished in, and presented to us on Christmas eve.

This particular ornament was a small compass, with a thin silver chain, which gave it the appearance of a pocket watch. Dad gave it to me on my last Christmas in High school, right after I had fretted my way through college applications. He handed it to me with great reverence, and I quickly understood how much he treasured it. Given to him by his father, just before he left for college, my father had kept it with him until that day. His father, in giving him this gift, reminded him that a compass, while a guide, could not prescribe a path towards reaching a desired direction. A compass just reminded one of the direction they were headed.

My father handed the compass over with the same advice, adding that, while the compass would always keep the destination in mind, detours never hurt; with the compass, you could always find a way back to the original destination, if that was the desire. He hoped that I would remember that.

Holding the compass in my hand, I thought about the conundrum I was now in. We had never spoken about the possibility of not having a destination. A destination had been considered given – a foregone conclusion to a story still being written. We overlooked the white elephant of the situation; I couldn’t imagine approaching my father without a clear vision of my future, and my father never doubted that I already had one in mind.

I realized, as I felt the metal warm to the temperature of my hands, that the compass, as my dad intended, couldn’t provide any help, at least right now. But it could, and I desperately wanted it to. If I could settle on a destination, on a goal for my life, then I could find my way to it, one way or another. If I could define my future, then the compass could once again have purpose.

I moved toward the tree, hanging the compass at eye level, and near the front, where I could easily find it again. As it slowly spun on its chain, its surface reflecting sparkles of white light, I steadily watched, letting myself fall into a trance. And as I stood transfixed, my inner turmoil once again boiled its way to the surface.

Mr. Becker’s words of encouragement were a stumbling block – one that, no matter how much I tried, I still was unable to ignore. It festered, spread, teased, taunted. I could push it down, convince myself of how useless a pursuit it might be, only to return to that rush I felt when I was handing in my final paper for his class. It had been fleeting, but for that moment, I felt surer of myself, of my abilities, than I had ever experienced. It was a peek into a world where I wasn’t lost, wasn’t insecure.

But the fleeting nature of the experience scared me. As I had already seen, from the days and weeks following, my ability to second-guess myself, to breed doubt of my own abilities, had infected even that singular event. And it had led me on a rollercoaster of emotions that left me reeling in vulnerability. Imagine a life of such up and downs? I would either harden myself to the experiences, learn to blunt the effects of the emotional extremes, or succumb to them, and drive myself crazy. I was betting on the latter outcome.