Sometimes I feel like the world changed somewhere. Like I tripped through a wormhole and left the world I was born in without ever noticing.
Sometimes I feel like I'm struggling to create pieces of that world, a small raft of comfort in a hostile environment.
It's not that the world was better when I was little. It's not even like I'm trying to recreate my own past.
But outside of my home the world moves so quickly. It feels like a barrage of bad news and heartache. The things of great importance deteriorate instantly, turning to dust and becoming forgotten in a matter of moments.
With Halloween in the rear view mirror, stores start pushing out holiday decorations, plugging sales and specials to remind you of all the gifts you need to give.
It becomes a match game. This thing is on sale, who can I give it to? Do I know someone who would like this? This is inexpensive enough, I'll buy five in case we have any unexpected guests at Christmas and I need a spare gift.
A spare gift.
People just take up space. Gifts get the spotlight.
This week my mother came over to bake Christmas cookies. The kitchen was an explosion of gluten-free flour and coloured sugar; there was chocolate on every surface and more. And in the midst of the chaos we needed to have The Talk.
The Santa Talk.
Maybe she asked if my daughter had written her letter to Santa. Maybe she asked what Santa would bring her. However it came up, I told her I didn't think we'd be introducing Santa to our Christmases in that way. We want Christmas to be about togetherness, about thoughtful, generous, creative gifting. We want to emphasize others at Christmas, to turn the joy and anticipation of the season towards giving, not getting.
And it didn't exactly go well.
"But think of all the wonder that made your childhood magical. Don't you want to give that to your children?"
Of course I do.
In the old world I helped my grandmother wrapped gifts every year. Sometime between Thanksgiving and Christmas my mother dropped me at her house for a day of hot milk and butterscotch pudding and metallic wrapping paper and oodles of wired ribbon. It was a meticulous operation: select the perfect box, line it with complimentary tissue, then carefully pack the handful of things she'd purchased for the person intended. It might be a collection of nail polishes she knew their mother wouldn't buy; it could be a coin sorter for the cousin who saved his money; there may be a fuzzy mechanical animal for the child who wanted a pet. Paper was thoughtfully matched to each individual and the elaborate bow was anchored with an ornament meant only for them.
On Christmas Eve we surveyed the gifts beneath her tree and matched their wrapping to people. Whose package was marked by the porcelain unicorn and whose paper featured bright ribbon candy? Each one was an expression of how we were seen by someone who appreciated our budding personas. And even though they were small compared to the big ticket gifts our parents would give us, my grandmother's gifts were some of the most anticipated of the season. They were beautiful, they were unique, and they were us in so many ways.
My favourite gifts have always been like that. Sure, I've made wishlists and shared them with family, but when I look back on holidays and birthdays what I really remember are the things picked up "because it looked like you" or "I thought you would enjoy it."
Incense from my mother.
An oil burner from my father.
A locket from my aunt.
These are things that made my life magical.
It's not like we just aren't going to introduce Santa at all. Santa, like any number of other Christmas legends, is a spirit that occupies the collective consciousness of the holidays. He represents the generosity of the season, the memory we comb through to find just the right gift for those we love.
She'll still bake cookies to give others, still leave offerings of fruit or vegetables for the animals doing their best to stave off the season. She'll still wake up on Christmas morning to find gifts under the tree, beautifully arranged while she was sleeping.
And that's real magic.
So delightful to hear others’ holiday experiences. I called my parents’ bluff abt Santa when I was quite young, and we didn’t do Santa til I had a child who Really Wanted To Believe--! 🥰
Happy holidays!