How to light the room

What are we yearning for, in our hearts only to land in our stomachs after Christmas dinner like a piece of poorly digested meat? When I hear the music, sometimes I feel like Charlie Brown: tricked into kicking the football, only to have it taken away at the last moment.

I still say ‘Christmas’. I still expect to see a child in a manger, I look for the decorated tree. I love the wrapped gifts, the fattening shortbread cookies, the turkey coupons, the worn sweaters in red and green. I look forward to whatever is going on anywhere – the carols, the choirs and especially the lights.

I remember a long-ago Christmas (before the Sunshine Coast was ‘discovered’) – when I made all my Christmas gifts. Out of necessity. People in my life have been pretty good sports: what did my ten-year-old niece think of the paper mache box full of scented potpourri? Did my brother-in-law like the photograph of his children laughing with my own, in a hand-glued, home-made wood picture frame? I do notice that in keeping with the kind of gift I give, that the gifts given back to me are less ambitious: I’m relieved; it’s difficult to compete with money when you don’t have much. But what I’ve found when making the gift is: I spend more time thinking about the person I’m giving it to.

Christmas is the tradition I was raised in; it’s a cultural and family ritual, one of the few I have left in my life. I came from a family whose everyday was laced with repetitive, religious rituals. The rosary every night to save the world from communism, mass every Sunday to be reminded of our obligations, extracurricular ceremonies every time there was another excuse to insert reminder doctrine into our lives. But the time before Christmas, (Advent) was somehow glowing. Mother would light a wreath, accented with one pink and three purple candles. And then,  as we recited the rosary, (which was unbearably boring), our gaze kept coming back to those flickering flames brightening the darkness. Now I’m critical of the underlying intentions: especially mental conformity. Still, I light candles almost every day at this time of year.

For me, Christmas is a celebration of birth. We can all participate because we’ve all been born. Christmas celebrates me as a woman who has given birth and all women who have given birth. It celebrates my son as someone who has been born.  It celebrates my husband, a caring and supportive parent who helped me bring that child into the world.

Here is a story of birth to celebrate mothers especially those who are unsupported, who are displaced, who are immigrants, who are looking for a safe place to spend the night and be with loved ones.