Never mind that temperatures have hovered for weeks in the 70s here in South Carolina, dipping below 50 only once or twice to remind us that it is December, after all. Set aside for the moment the sickness and suffering of so many people these days; Christmas isn’t a certain set of circumstances. It is a state of mind by which many adults can indulge their earliest memories and children can be swept into a world of snow with the gentle shake of a tiny glass globe.
Yes, admittedly, Christmas can be an annoying confection of grossly excessive commercialism. But within the homes of those who share the faith — or at least the tradition — the annual ritual of anticipation and delight is worth the aggravation to the mature psyche. Or so I’ve decided in justifying my own rather elaborate tending of the Christmas spirit, notwithstanding all the preceding.
In private life, I’m a relentless decorator, not just during holidays but on all days of all years. It’s a compulsion born of a rocky childhood in which multiple mothers came and went after mine died young. My second mother, the one I called Mama, a graduate of the New York School of Interior Design, was, like her own mother, a decorator.
I call Mama’s on-location reign of just seven years in our house our Camelot period, which, coincidentally, ended the same year President John F. Kennedy was killed.
When she left with my little sister, abandoning me to my father and brother, she took most of the beauty, light and joy with her. At 12, I didn’t hold it against her. All these years later, I’m grateful for her love, which was steadfast to the end of her life at 90, and for her showing me how to create beauty from whatever you have on hand.
By her hand, Christmas was magical. She was like Tinker Bell wielding a wand that left sparkles in her wake. Gilt cardboard cutouts gleamed above doorways. Tabletops glistened with silver candlesticks and crystal bowls filled with candy. Candlelight dappled the covers of Christmas books stacked on coffee tables. And, music to my little ears, ice cubes tinkled cocktail glasses to the tune of Perry Como singing “Silent Night.”
My brother Jack and I were sent to bed early so that Santa would have time to assemble a barking poodle and install batteries before the old elf grew too tired to read directions. We’d lie awake upstairs, whispering our best guesses as to Santa’s current location. Finally, we allowed ourselves to fall asleep in the belief that Santa would skip our house if we didn’t.
Fast-forward and I became a parent, determined to master the art of loving through beauty and, once a year, to re-create the magic of Christmases past. Fast-forward again and I’m a grandparent no longer expected to put on much of a show. Our three sons now have their own families and commitments to tend. Briefly, I considered a minimalist approach to the season, but my maximalist soul prevailed.
If it wasn’t moving, I put a bow on it. There’s a strong possibility no one will see any of the fruits of my labors, but that’s okay. As I carried a dozen Christmas bins from the basement, wondering when exactly I had lost my mind, I realized that I decorate for Christmas for its own sake — for the joy of creation and for beauty itself, even if it’s beheld only by its creator.
Understanding that many people haven’t had the experiences I’ve had and may not have the wherewithal to indulge their children’s dreams, I would offer only this: The spirit of Christmas is within each of us and available to anyone. What I learned so long ago through tumult, heartbreak and loneliness is that we bring our own cheer to the party and create our own joy.
And, no, that’s not easy for me to say. Far easier is to simply wish you a happy, healthy holiday and a Merry Christmas. May your sorrows be few and your spirits be bright.
"Opinion" - Google News
December 22, 2021 at 07:21AM
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Opinion | We need Christmas this year more than ever - The Washington Post
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