The photograph above was taken by a lady named Bev Jakins. It is one of the most poignant and beautiful pictures of a Christmas Tree that I ever have seen. Beautiful and amazing because these are real birds nestling in the boughs of a trimmed Tree. Poignant because they were her beloved pets who now have departed from this world. She gave me permission to post the photograph here.
I think now that it was after Ernst's death that I basically gave up on Christmas. It was that and the fact that Freya had reached a stage where she no longer wished to write a note to Santa on Christmas Eve. In other words, she was not interested in making any contribution to the magic. My sister and I continued to write notes to Santa even after we had our own children. It was part of our family tradition and whenever we were at home, our notes were answered. Ritual and tradition are sacrosanct to me. They hold things together even when the core of life falls apart.
Ernst never was anything more than a very good friend, but he probably was closer to being a soulmate in many ways than most people I have encountered. He listened to me and ALWAYS acted as though he were interested in everything I thought or said. I would tell him about things that I had seen, that I liked. Whether or not he sent them was really not as important as the fact that he listened to my descriptions and engaged in my own excitement.
I lived in so many different places when I became an adult and went through so many different relationships that I never really established a proper home. Christmas is very much a home festival. Somehow, though, I collected a few ornaments through the years and no matter where I lived or what my financial circumstances, I tried to have a very small real tree, even if I were alone. When Freya was born, though, Christmas changed into something quite extravagant. Ernst and I both went a bit mad over Christmas and its rituals and decorations. Ironic in a way that the person who shared Christmas the most with me lived hundreds of miles away and was not the father of my child.
Years passed and Ernst died. Freya would not decorate the Tree with me and after I became disabled, it was extremely difficult to haul boxes and boxes up and down flights of spiral stairs before and after Christmas. I suppose much of the joy had been lost as well. Apart from that, everything reminded me too much of Ernst. He really had been Father Christmas both for Freya and for me. It is odd to admit that, as an adult woman, I had a genuine Father Christmas in my life but that was precisely what he was. It was not only books and clothes and little luxuries like good soap and toiletries. He sent the treats that one associates with the Season. All my favourite English foods like mince pies and Devon cream, lovely preserves and Maple Sugar sweets from Maine where he lived.
As usual, I am not coming to the point directly. With this move, I have been unable to bring much to the house but I made certain to unearth the Christmas decorations. After over a decade, I finally opened boxes containing some of my favourite ornaments. It is a bittersweet experience. The wonderful friend who gave many of them to me is dead. My daughter is at University and I essentially am experiencing the Advent Season alone. When I tried to decorate the room with the fireplace here, my efforts were met with rather violent and bitter hostility, rather to my shock. So there is no communion here.
I bought a little Blue Spruce Tree and placed it on the landing. I hope that Freya will want to buy a larger tree and help me 'trim' it when she comes home, but she never has done any of the decorating, so the most I can expect is that we will go on the tree-hunting expedition together and perhaps she will bake while I decorate. Meanwhile, the Advent season is here.
I open the boxes that contain some of the most precious memories from my past and I cry a little but there is a part of me as well that takes joy in the beauty of these ornaments. I know a lot of people who act as though little objects such as these are beneath them. They like empty spaces and minimalism. I don't. I've lived in too many strange, empty spaces in my life. Even when I stay in a hotel somewhere, I set out a few little personal items to make it akin to some sort of 'home' I do not delight in sterile environments. Clutter to me is kind of magical. It goes back to John Cole's Book Shop and an enormous desk with drawers filled with odd little jumbled assortments of treasures. One never knew what one would find there and the contents of any given drawer had no real theme or predictability.
My room is like that. I don't think any one has said anything entirely positive about it actually. Both my Mum and my daughter were rather unflattering. Well, as far as I am concerned, it is irrelevant. It is my only sanctuary and I will surround myself with things that have significance to me. I'm not looking for a spread in an interior design periodical.
The photographs above are of two Christmas decorations that really belong on a very large, handsome Tree. As I do not have such a Tree at the moment, I decided to hang them in my room temporarily.
The little angel doll for 'Baby's First Christmas' is very precious to me. By the time I had Freya, I had become convinced that I never would be able to have a child. Her first Christmas was an extraordinary event spiritually for me. The birth of the Christ Child and the birth of my own daughter were both cause for great celebration, despite the rathe difficult circumstances of her birth.
The little white Unicorn is very special for a different reason. It was a Christmas Gift from a guy who probably was more in tune with my own sense of magic than any one else with whom I ever had a relationship. Sadly, he was very seriously addicted to heroin. Despite the problems inherent in that, he made Christmas absolutely magical. He made me the best Christmas stocking I ever had and one of the few I ever received from a guy. I had seen the unicorn in a local shop and loved it. We didn't have much money and I could not afford to buy it. Looking back, I cannot imagine it cost THAT much, but I simply did not have the money for it. He surprised me with it for Christmas.
We actually made stockings for one another. He sewed mine and I sewed his after buying the felt and some embroidered decorations at a shop. I have the stocking still. I am almost absurdly sentimental. He blessedly is NOT one of those close friends of mine who now is dead. He no longer uses either. I hope that he is sharing his own special sense of the Christmas Spirit with some one special in his life.
For my part, I am glad that I have so many memories and beautiful reminders of times past, even if there are some tears mingled with the joy of celebrating the birth of the Divine Child. At Christmas Eve Mass, I always cry when the lights are dimmed, the candles lit and we sing 'Silent Night' while contemplating the creche with the Christ Child at its centre. The carol is one that inspires intense emotion for some reason but beyond that, it always fills me with a renewed sense of the miracle of Christmas and the faith that we hold close to our hearts despite all of life's disappointments and pain. I use the word 'Faith' in a wide sense to include the child's belief in Father Christmas as well as the visit of the Three Kings at Twelfth Night. Faith is not the same as dogma after all. It is that sustaining belief in Magic that defies the small-minded who claim that nothing exists beyond all that has been proved scientifically. What difference does proof make to the landscape of the soul? For me, Christmas is a season of great magic. Christianity is a part of it but so are the ancient pagan traditions of the Winter Solstice. Neither is diminished by the power of the other. A rich inner life can accommodate both and indeed far more.
