December can be an overwhelming month. Daylight is at is most scarce, the year careens toward a close, and when the holidays roll around, we get to thinking about a lot: family, where we are in our lives, and what we value. It's not always magical. I have friends who are far from their families, others who can't afford to buy gifts. Working in retail this season, I'm finding it difficult to scrounge out even a moment for myself, for reflection. When I was a child, Christmas used to be a ritual, a ritual that began at the beginning of December and lasted all the way through New Year's. Advent calendars and wreaths, ornaments, mangers: these were symbolic objects I devoted myself to, spent my evenings admiring. Now that I'm working right through Christmas Eve and the day after, the whole affair seems like more of a whirlwind, and I can't seem to call up the sense of wonder I used to feel.
Of course, it's easy to say that I feel this way because I'm growing up. And yes, that's part of it. But I also think that as the pressures of adulthood pile on, I simply haven't had the time to feel the same grand feelings. Which I've realized is ultimately okay, as long as I can re-define my experience. A few days ago, I took a last-minute drive up to Vermont to decorate my parents' Christmas tree. I savored the feeling of the pine-needles against my fingertips, the sight of the ornaments all lined up in boxes. We spent a half an hour, maybe forty five minutes decorating, but it was enough. Spending an extra five dollars on a pine-scented candle, listening to A Charlie Brown Christmas on the way to work--these little ituals have gone a long way for me this year. And I almost prefer it that way; stealing small moments here and there.
Writing this post has also conjured up isolated moments and images of past holidays, and the objects and rituals associated with them. The only way I could think to encapsulate them was to take a few photos of my own home accompany them with a series of reflective object pieces, which I hope will inspire you to consider the small ways you can bring cheer into your own lives at this dark time of the year. It only takes a little.
Cookie:
My mother used to take the cookie cutters out every year. We made sugar cookies together until we didn't anymore, and I don't remember which year that was. They live somewhere in her and my stepfather's new house, and sometimes she takes the small heart-shaped one out to stamp pie dough. She lays the perfect shape flat on the floured skin; it browns and rises, a perfect love-mark, and I know she remembers.
Stocking + Orange:
My grandmother made our Christmas stockings, and I don't know how she did it, but an orange fits perfectly in the toe. She must have measured.
Manger:
One year, the Joseph in our manger lost his head. My sister tried to glue it back on but it was too small, so he sat headless, a clay mass next to the tiny baby sheep. Years later, the metaphor in this still escapes me.
Wreath:
My mother was raised Catholic, and she knew that you always light the pink candle on the advent wreath third. When I asked her why, she said she didn't know, she was just raised that way; her mother taught her that, and now she was teaching me.
Tree:
My parents got their tree from the same tree farm every year. For so many years, that they got their names written on a little paper ornament stuck on a construction paper tree emblazoned with the farm's most loyal customers. A couple of years ago I went to pick out a tree with my mom and stepfather, and it was still tacked up on the wall, an unassuming emblem of a dissolved era. And still, I smiled.
I wish you all a very happy holiday season, loves.
