...& It Was Made of Magic
Tonight my living room is lit only by the glow of my Christmas tree, the strings of lights that spread across my bookshelves, and the glow of my laptop as I type this. I put the tree up today. I placed the pieces in my nativity scene, set out my Santa figurines, and strung lights across the bookshelves and above the kitchen cabinets. It's early - not yet Thanksgiving, but have no doubt that Thanksgiving will come; turkey will be eaten with family, and the presence of my Christmas tree will in no way force me to forget how thankful I am for the beautiful people and the wonderful pieces of my life. Nor will the act of decorating for Christmas take away from the true meaning of the holiday, one that has nothing to do with what the house looks like in December. On the contrary, the Christmas decor tends to remind me just how thankful I should be for everything I have.
When I was a child, decorating the Christmas tree was a favorite day. My parents would make cider or cocoa and put on a Christmas record - sometimes it was pretty, religious hymns, sometimes Christmas cartoon classics, the Beach Boys crooning holiday favorites, George Strait singing There's a New Kid in Town, but no matter what the speakers played, my sisters and I danced around the living room, hanging ornaments only as far up on the tree as we could reach.
My parents had favorite ornaments: the little drummer boy, ones that had come from my grandmother's tree, the snow babies, hand-painted gifts from friends or relatives, and the one that I think was a favorite for all of us: the kneeling Santa, taking off his cap as he knelt at the manger. Those ornaments all still hang on the tree at my parents' house (which I'm sure will go up sometime after Thanksgiving - my mother always decorated for our benefit, not hers - still does I think). But I have a kneeling Santa of my own now, as do both of my sisters. Mom gave us each one for Christmas a few years back. I cried when I opened it. Because decorating the Christmas tree was one of the ways our parents loved us. They let us dance and sing and talk about every single ornament we put our hands on, not because they wanted their home to look a certain way at Christmas time, because their little girls felt special and hopeful and safe when they fell asleep on the living room floor watching A Muppet Christmas Carol in the glow of the tree lights.
The glow of my Christmas tree still makes me feel safe. It always has. I remember the first year that my sister and I lived alone in our college apartment; money was scarce, and we were "grown-ups now"; we were determined to do it alone and not complain or ask for help (though we surely did a little complaining, and probably received a little pity help too). But it was big and overwhelming and scary. We put up the Christmas tree on the very first day of November that year. Because we knew that if we put on a pot of coffee and hung the ornaments, life wouldn't seem so scary for a while. So we shut off the lights and slept in the living room with the Christmas tree. And it felt safe and warm and special. Because once upon a time a Christmas tree meant magic, and even though then, on the brink of our grown-up lives, magic was hard to come by, it was always present in the ornaments and lights.
So I don't decorate my house for Christmas because I want the world to know that I spent time and money perfecting the way it will look. Truly, it's unlikely anyone but me will even sit in this room while the lights are up. I decorate the house for Christmas because it makes my home feel warmer, calmer, safer.
It reminds me of the time that my dad built us a snow igloo in the yard even though it took hours, and his fingers had to have been frozen; how much he must love us to have spent hours in the snow to make us laugh, or the time that I woke up from a nap on the couch during Christmas break from college to Mom bringing me a mug of hot chocolate, or when Megan decided that she just had to have this doll two days before Christmas, but Santa could do it because "Santa can do anything," so my parents, in a town without the ease of a shopping mall, tracked down someone who could pick up the doll and bring it back for them so that my little sister didn't have to lose faith in what "Santa could do."
Decorating for Christmas, no matter how early or late it's done - is to remind myself of all of those things, of how much love has always surrounded me, of the magic that I used to believe in with such ease, of all the luck and hope and beauty that I possess. As I sit in the quiet of the living room tonight, the glow of the Christmas tree brings with it a familiar comfort, a warmth, and yes...maybe even too a little magic. Who couldn't use a little bit of that? (Even if it is before Thanksgiving).
When I was a child, decorating the Christmas tree was a favorite day. My parents would make cider or cocoa and put on a Christmas record - sometimes it was pretty, religious hymns, sometimes Christmas cartoon classics, the Beach Boys crooning holiday favorites, George Strait singing There's a New Kid in Town, but no matter what the speakers played, my sisters and I danced around the living room, hanging ornaments only as far up on the tree as we could reach.
My parents had favorite ornaments: the little drummer boy, ones that had come from my grandmother's tree, the snow babies, hand-painted gifts from friends or relatives, and the one that I think was a favorite for all of us: the kneeling Santa, taking off his cap as he knelt at the manger. Those ornaments all still hang on the tree at my parents' house (which I'm sure will go up sometime after Thanksgiving - my mother always decorated for our benefit, not hers - still does I think). But I have a kneeling Santa of my own now, as do both of my sisters. Mom gave us each one for Christmas a few years back. I cried when I opened it. Because decorating the Christmas tree was one of the ways our parents loved us. They let us dance and sing and talk about every single ornament we put our hands on, not because they wanted their home to look a certain way at Christmas time, because their little girls felt special and hopeful and safe when they fell asleep on the living room floor watching A Muppet Christmas Carol in the glow of the tree lights.
The glow of my Christmas tree still makes me feel safe. It always has. I remember the first year that my sister and I lived alone in our college apartment; money was scarce, and we were "grown-ups now"; we were determined to do it alone and not complain or ask for help (though we surely did a little complaining, and probably received a little pity help too). But it was big and overwhelming and scary. We put up the Christmas tree on the very first day of November that year. Because we knew that if we put on a pot of coffee and hung the ornaments, life wouldn't seem so scary for a while. So we shut off the lights and slept in the living room with the Christmas tree. And it felt safe and warm and special. Because once upon a time a Christmas tree meant magic, and even though then, on the brink of our grown-up lives, magic was hard to come by, it was always present in the ornaments and lights.
So I don't decorate my house for Christmas because I want the world to know that I spent time and money perfecting the way it will look. Truly, it's unlikely anyone but me will even sit in this room while the lights are up. I decorate the house for Christmas because it makes my home feel warmer, calmer, safer.
It reminds me of the time that my dad built us a snow igloo in the yard even though it took hours, and his fingers had to have been frozen; how much he must love us to have spent hours in the snow to make us laugh, or the time that I woke up from a nap on the couch during Christmas break from college to Mom bringing me a mug of hot chocolate, or when Megan decided that she just had to have this doll two days before Christmas, but Santa could do it because "Santa can do anything," so my parents, in a town without the ease of a shopping mall, tracked down someone who could pick up the doll and bring it back for them so that my little sister didn't have to lose faith in what "Santa could do."
Decorating for Christmas, no matter how early or late it's done - is to remind myself of all of those things, of how much love has always surrounded me, of the magic that I used to believe in with such ease, of all the luck and hope and beauty that I possess. As I sit in the quiet of the living room tonight, the glow of the Christmas tree brings with it a familiar comfort, a warmth, and yes...maybe even too a little magic. Who couldn't use a little bit of that? (Even if it is before Thanksgiving).
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