I loved Christmas as a kid. We didn't have much so it wasn't about the gifts, it was about the pure fact that we had something positive to celebrate: the birth of a baby who started a fresh new life (which curiously seemed to end a mere 3-4 months later when we celebrated that baby's death by wearing spring dresses in the cold Northeast with matching hats and white shoes we had to try reeeeal hard not to get muddy). But Christmastime, amidst the snow, cold temps and moon-lit nights seemed magical. It was a happy time (and lots of people who weren't, as a general rule, happy the rest of the year seemed happier in December). It was a time when "old" people seemed to look me in the eye and speak to me like I actually mattered. It was a time when my daydreams got lost in the late afternoon darkness that was broken up by various sizes and colors of Christmas lights on the neighbors houses. Christmastime was my time for daydreaming, singing, painting and making things for people who were happy to receive them. I got lost in the wonder of laying beneath the Christmas tree and looking up into the depth of lights and branches and ornaments, creating entire worlds of mystical fairy tales complete with little beings who I just *knew* lived inside the branches of my tree. (They probably lived inside yours too, did you ever look?)
But as I grew up and tried hard to hang onto that wonder (which manifested itself as entire Christmas wonderlands complete with live 6-foot trees in one corner or another of the various shoddily furnished apartments I occupied at the age of 21... and 22... and 23). I collected entire Rubbermaid bins full of decorations - some handed down, some collected at after-Christmas clearance sales, some purchased with money that was probably meant for food - but I just kept collecting. I kept up the Big Deal Christmas thing for years, through different apartments, different boyfriends of different faiths, and different cities. I had great parties attended by great bunches of friends who had great bunches of fun. Somehow, I was still gifting Christmas to my own child within - and to as many friends as I could have come over.
But something happened. I'm not exactly sure when or how - perhaps a bad relationship, or no desire to unearth the Rubbermaids, maybe I was too busy in my new job... whatever the reasons, it all led to years of little or no Christmas. As friends had babies, my Christmas seemed a little out of place, so I gave it up. I had children around me to give to so I focused on buying the sweet little gifts, wrapping them in curly ribbon, fancy boxes you don't throw away and custom-made tags worthy of hanging on the tree. I loved this - I still do - but I realized that this was a replacement for the Christmas I loved so much as a child and gave to myself for many years as a young adult but for some reason stopped giving to myself in recent years - until I realized something very important.
It turns out that the gift of Christmas is something you CAN give yourself. You CAN lay beneath the tree and stare up through the branches for an hour in a state of wonder at the age of 30 or 50 or 80 (mind you, I haven't hit two of those benchmarks yet so I'm speculating a bit here...). You really can. You don't have to have a child to do it and you don't need to justify it to anyone. The gifts of Christmas are gifts you give to those you love, yes, but the real gift of Christmas is something much deeper. It's not just about the meaning that is discussed, debated, debunked, disregarded and just generally dissed more often than not lately. Rather it is very personal meaning that matters - it's the magical one that existed in your own childhood and that is not debatable. Nor is the deep meaning of the holiday that we each hold deep within ourselves debatable. But I won't tell you what that meaning is - that's not up to me.
It's up to you - not your mother, your sister, your neighbor, the talking heads on TV, the marketers at Macy's, your friends on Facebook, the people you don't really like on Facebook or your ex-boyfriend. If it's overly commercial to you, well, I kinda think that sucks but that's your Christmas, not mine. If it's orthodox, that's your choice too. If it's full of Santa or ornaments handed down for four generations on your mother's side or if it's a time to bake with your sister, that's entirely YOURS to have, to experience and to love. Don't give it up. Don't give it away. Do give. And do receive the gift of Christmas that exists deep within your own heart... that wonder you once had that still lives within you and wants to give itself back to you year after year and remind you of something only you are supposed to know. It wants to give Christmas back to you as the best gift you can ever receive, so be open and receive it.
Merry Christmas to you, to me, and to all of us, in whatever way we choose to receive that gift.
Oh, and don't forget the gift of the guitar playing Santa... This one is for you, T.L.
This is a wonderful posting and the photos are great as well. The narrative speaks volumes.
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