Et voila, my first Christmas tree ever in my own home, only four and a half feet high, and it came in a box from Target, but I think it looks pretty darn good. Proud of it though I am, I'm a little muddled about presenting our family Christmas tree on the blog. One half of the family is Jewish, as is Lila, and even though these things are worked out in the strictest sense between Josh and me, it still feels a little unsteady in its execution.
For me, though we used to go to church on Christmas growing up, I was not religious, even as a child. And I never found much co-mingling between Jesus and Santa Claus. Jesus always seemed like a pretty decent guy, but even at a young age I could suss out a suspiciously bureaucratic patriarchy at the helm of his message that kept me from investing in any sort of true faith. So Santa, to me, was separate; always much more a capitalist/consumer icon in my mind than a Christian one.
But while I have given up my religious ties to the holiday, I find I can't give up my cultural attachment. It holds meaning. My mother always made the holiday season a happy time in our house growing up, wrapping bannisters with pine garlands, simmering orange peel, cinnamon and cloves on the stove in the evening, carefully unwrapping and displaying decorations from her worldly travels, and orchestrating a beautiful, statuesque live tree covered with ornaments spanning generations.
My father, on the other hand, always embraced the practical tasks of Christmas, untangling miles of white lights, checking fuses, binding cords, overseeing safety and maintenance. For many years he put up my mother's indoor tree as well as a 2nd white-light-covered outdoor tree that perched on a balcony on the 2nd floor of the house I grew up in. He and my sister would also coordinate leaving Santa Claus clues for my younger brother, making reindeer tracks and boot prints in the snow on the balcony outside my parents' bedroom.
Well into my late teens I went to bed on Christmas Eve with a feeling in my stomach like no other night. I have always been a worrier, going to bed with thoughts of what went wrong today or what wouldn't go right tomorrow. But on Christmas Eve, long after Santa had been debunked, I felt excited, and filled with uncharacteristic optimism.
Having Lila has reawakened that optimism, oddly enough. Oh, don't get me wrong, I can still compete admirably in worrying, but I do go to bed some nights feeling positively giddy at the thought of seeing her in the morning. I feel so lucky to be re-acquainted with this old sensation.
So I have to celebrate Christmas, even if it's Jesus-free.
We'll work out the kinks as the years pass.
