The day was grand, filled with family and food and thoughtful gifts. In its wake there is gratitude and satiety and relief that I’ve no more gifts to buy!
Almost always after Christmas, I long for a cleansing, a de-cluttering, a new broom to sweep away the cobwebs.
At war with this instinct is the urge to relax, to actually do nothing except read, write and watch movies. And right now … that’s what’s winning!
Once again the days have passed, the splendid ones and the trying ones. Once again we’ve come back to this point, which is for me, and for many, the great pause. Christmas Day. Soon to be followed by New Year’s Day and the delicious week in between. Once again I’ll re-run this blog post, one I wrote in 2011. Merry Christmas!
Our old house has seen better days. The siding is dented, the walkway is cracked, the yard is muddy and tracked with Copper’s paw prints. Inside is one of the fullest and most aromatic trees we’ve ever chopped down. Cards line the mantel, the fridge is so full it takes ten minutes to find the cream cheese. Which is to say we are as ready as we will ever be. The family is gathering. I need to make one more trip to the grocery store.
This morning I thought about a scene from one of my favorite Christmas movies, one I hope we’ll have time to watch in the next few days. In “It’s a Wonderful Life,” Jimmy Stewart has just learned he faces bank fraud and prison, and as he comes home beside himself with worry, he grabs the knob of the banister in his old house — and it comes off in his hand. He is exasperated at this; it seems to represent his failures and shortcomings.
By the end of the movie, after he’s been visited by an angel, after his family and friends have rallied around him in an unprecedented way, after he’s had a chance to see what the world would have been like without him — he grabs the banister knob again. And once again, it comes off in his hand. But this time, he kisses it. The house is still cold and drafty and in need of repair. But it has been sanctified by friendship and love and solidarity.
Christmas doesn’t take away our problems. But it counters them with joy. It reminds us to appreciate the humble, familiar things that surround us every day, and to draw strength from the people we love. And surely there is a bit of the miraculous in that.
Photo: Flow TV
There are fewer cards on the mantel each year, it seems — Facebook and high postage rates at work as well as the lovely ecards that I treasure, too. I still send out a slew of hard-copy photo cards, as I have every year since Suzanne was born. And I still cherish each card that comes in, maybe even more so now.
This year’s crop brings much joyous news of health battles overcome (or at least at stalemate), of new babies here or on the way, of friends moving back to the area.
The mantel is a bit more crowded this year with a new clock, so I’m making room for the cards on the table, where I can pick them up and read them over and over.
They are, as always, a reminder of what matters most, of love and fellowship, of the fact that we are fellow travelers on the way — and that this is a time to rejoice.
I”m just back from a last-minute shopping run, and I’ve decided that one of the less-appreciated but most important presents we can (not) buy is … the gift of restraint.
Yes, I did pick up a few extra items, but there were many, many more that I did not. I avoided the games section, refuge of the lost and frantic. And the jewelry and toiletries, ditto. Doing this not only saves me money, but it saves my loved ones time because they will have fewer gifts to return this year.
This is not to say they won’t find many gifts underneath the tree. They will! But there are some they will not find … and they will thank me for that!
As I prepare to finish my holiday shopping I’m encouraged to learn about an expense I have so far avoided this season. The nine-foot “Starry Night” artificial Christmas tree by Frontgate costs $2,474 — though you can score another tree from this brand for a mere $999.
I learned this from a Washington Post article this morning, which also contains these tidbits: Americans prefer fake trees by two to one. And last year 63 percent of Republicans said they planned to buy an artificial tree compared with 44 percent of Democrats.
In this house the trees are always real … though never say never.
Now the countdown really begins. Even December 18th and 19th have the aura of Christmas about them, and certainly the 20th does. These dates glow with an ancient brightness. They echo down through centuries. When will we hit the darkest day? When will we hit bottom and start to rise again?
Of course, these close-to-Christmas dates also have personal memories, harking back to childhood. They were the days that would never end, full of anticipation and wonder and even a little bit of fear. Had I been good enough? Would there be a bride doll or a bicycle or whatever else I absolutely had to have waiting for me underneath the tree?
Those days are long gone, of course, but memories of them linger and color late December, make it a magical time, even now.
Last night was perhaps best summed up by my daughter Suzanne, who sent around this text early in the evening: “Christmas in Washington: Cookies in the oven, Congress on TV.” I imagine this was the case throughout the nation, where holiday activities met with political goings-on.
And in fact, there were decisions to be made. Does one trim the tree while watching members of Congress cast votes for article 1 and article 2? How about addressing Christmas cars? Would that be a suitable accompaniment for watching the president be impeached? And does one keep the recorded carols playing, or turn them down out of respect?
I settled for a smidge of online shopping and a good conversation with Celia, who thinks there ought to be an upper age limit set for holding political office, just as there is a lower one. It’s an understandable sentiment given what was unfolding before us.
Tonight we gather again, the wavering sopranos, the alto who has a little sinus drainage and is wondering if she can hit the high notes, the tenor who hasn’t sung in public since high school, the baritone who does this every year and secretly wishes he could have a solo.
Tonight we gather to sing Handel’s great masterpiece, a most forgiving work, full of runs and other acrobatics but at heart a piece for the people— an egalitarian oratorio that welcomes all pilgrims.
I’m making educated guesses on the other singers, but I can vouch for this alto. I’ll take out my score tonight with joy and trepidation. “And He Shall Purify” is not for the faint of heart. Nor is the “Hallelujah Chorus” with its pause right before the end, a trap that has embarrassed more than one singer. In fact, challenges lurk in every recitative, aria and chorus of this piece.
But I can also predict the joy and gladness that will flood our hearts at the finish — that we, a group of strangers at 7 p.m. will by 8:30 have sung a great masterwork together. Yes, there will be botched runs and missed entrances. But the “hallelujahs” will ring out loud and clear.
(No, we were not singing in National Cathedral … I wish!)
Yesterday was the Third Sunday of Advent, Gaudete Sunday, with rose-colored vestments and the theme of … rejoice!
And rejoice I shall, starting with today, the birthday not only of Beethoven but also of our own sweet doggie, Copper. To celebrate the former, I drove to Metro (through sleet and freezing rain) to the sounds of the lovely Archduke Trio, which made the drive almost bearable.
To celebrate the latter, we had a celebration over the weekend, complete with steak and cake. We sang a song and lit a candle and played with the little guy, who had somehow found the squeak toy I bought him and pulled it out of a shopping bag. Can he be smarter than we think? You never know…
Gaudete and happy birthday, birthday boys!
For our office party today we’ve been told to wear our Christmas sweaters, “the tackier the better.” I’m wearing mine, but I doubt it will win the prize — and I hope it doesn’t.
My Christmas sweater was a gift, and it was given with love, so I don’t want it to be skewered. But more to the point, I’m against ugly sweater contests in general because — strange as it sounds — I feel sorry for the sweaters.
I’ve been trying to figure out why that is. Could it be the way I sentimentalize clothing, a habit that has filled my closet with items that would be better off at Goodwill? Or could it be deeper than that?
Christmas sweaters, like Jello salad and green bean casserole, speak of an earlier, less ironic era. Could it be that in satirizing sweaters with appliqués and rick-rack we’re announcing that we’re beyond such froufrou — even though we’re following the fashion of our era just as rigidly. (Will we someday have ripped jean contests — the more ripped the better?)
Seems to me that with all there is to celebrate at the holidays, choosing to belittle something (even something that’s asking for it) is a poor use of our time. I know, I know. Lighten up — it’s just a sweater. But maybe … it’s more.
(This is not my sweater. It’s from an invitation to an ugly sweater contest.)
