Letting Go of Christmas

I don’t know about you, but each December 26, while sipping coffee, I look around at all the Christmas decorations speckled about my house. I try to ignore the pang of restlessness, and then my husband inevitably says, “Do you want to take down the tree today?” He gives voice to my contemplation.

I’m torn. The magic of twinkle and the merriment of my Santa collection continues to allure. The effort to decorate for the Holidays warrants more than a few weeks of enjoyment, right? And what about Christmas music? I’m really not so tired of Mariah Carey singing “All I Want for Christmas is You.” And Christmas week isn’t technically over until at least January 1. But, then again, there is that longing for normalcy; for order and ordinary time.

Part of me wants to linger in the glimmering lights, the sparkle and the companionship of transcending glow. The radiance of Christmas lights offered an especially festive respite from 2020’s absence of normalcy. It was almost like the glow of the tree extended companionship to the sometimes-lonely days of this December. The nostalgia of the hanging ornaments drew me into a happy place of love and family memories.

My internal discussion usually results in the justification to dismantle the train set surrounding the base of my Christmas tree. I’ll just put that away, I say. But then the train leads to the taking down of the stockings hanging above the fireplace. I’ll stop after I wrap up the Christmas village display. Then, before I know it, the plastic bins are stored and tucked away until next year. And then, it is done. And then, I feel sad.

But then I think about the fruit cake. Fruit cakes are awful, in my humble opinion. I just cannot understand how such a dense, congealed pack of dried fruit and nuts is appealing. Yet, my husband loves them, and this year, he searched and found the “best fruit cake ever.” He was so happy, as the memories of his grandparent’s bakery ignites heart-warming remembrances. Still,  that fruit cake, weighing as much as a cement block, sat on my kitchen counter surrounded by addictive peanut brittle, peppermint-white chocolate chip cookies, and pretzel dips with green and red sprinkles. Coffee cake took permanent residence, and there was not a meal to be had without a cheesy, cream-dripping casserole. December invites indulgences into our kitchen that are most unlikely to be found nowhere near us from January to March. Those months are for cucumber slices and hummus (well, maybe a cookie here and there). Yes, ordinary time awaits.

As I work through my usual post-holiday letting go, I must admit for the first time in a long time, despite the darkening of my Christmas tree, I feel hope. One year ago, we had no idea what 2020 would bring; the challenge, loss, and debilitating fears we would face together. Maybe because we’ve endured the unimaginable, the sweetness of a more normal routine will feel even more extraordinary.

I’m adjusting to the drabness of my twinkle-less home. I will instruct my heart to follow the light of hope for 2021. Next year, I trust the lights will shine even brighter and we can all come together in joy. I may even take a bite of fruitcake . . . but probably not.