Every year, it hits me. Putting away all the Christmas decorations always makes me unbearably sad.
For a short, small part of the year — a cold, dark part, not even a month — my home has been a haven of color and light. Candles cut the wintry gloom with their warmth. Colored lights glowed softly instead of normal white glare. The fragile, colored glass ornaments that fascinated and dazzled me as a child still hang on my tree, still sparkle and remind me of so much innocence and tenderness.
Colors are such an intimate, integral part of the season. The red and green plaid tablecloth transforms the small dining room into a different landscape, where one doesn’t just eat, one gathers and feasts. Celebrates.
From the CD player, carols in soothing piano versions or Nativity music from Bach, Adolphe Adam and others, soft, melodic, tranquil. Especially, tranquil. Peace is the language of the season.
Mystery is the source of the peace. And there’s plenty of mystery to go around, however you celebrate this season. Whether it’s a baby in a village in Bethlehem, or the shortest day of the year and its darkest season, or just the wonder of a tree brought indoors and adorned with love. Mystery is the currency of Christmas.
And then it’s over.
In my house, it goes grudgingly.