Every Christmas morning as a child I would creep downstairs in the wee hours to explore the riches left beneath the tree. Santa was always very good to us, boxes and packages wrapped in lovely designs, divided into three distinct sections: Amy, Catherine, Caroline. And there were always gifts unwrapped, sitting in plain sight, an invitation, a hint of what was to come.
One year, before Santa's cover had been blown, I discovered under my sister's section of the tree, a fabulous, musical gadget, long and rounded like a wand and decorated in colored buttons, each emitting a different note when pressed. I was instantly mesmerized and thought it should be mine. Now, I wonder if somewhere in my subconscious I had already considered there was no Santa Claus, because I can remember a distinct feeling of dishonesty and risk. With the toy tucked neatly under my arm, I sneaked down the hall, gently pushed open my parents bedroom door and stood at my mother's side.
"Mom, Santa came!"
As she opened her eyes, after a few short hours of sleep, no doubt, I brandished the prize in front of her. "And look what he brought me!"
This must have been a test; the anticipation of a response lingered heavy between us. She looked into my little face and said with a direct tone, "I think Santa left that for Catherine."
"Oh," I said. "I'll put it back."
This anecdote feels like a confession, an admittance of a lesser past self, one who valued getting more than giving. A child, yes, but Amy all the same. Joan Didion wrote an essay in 1966 titled "On Keeping a Notebook", an exploration of her old notes, overheard conversations, glimpses of people she met or encountered, tiny pieces of reality meant to evoke a memory of who she was then, whether she liked that person or not, they were all her selves. When we put aside the over-consumerism of the season, slough off the stress of parties, cards, gifts and baking, get still and reflect, nostalgia surfaces, parallel with the 2,000 year old birthday celebration this is all supposed to be.
"The palest ink is better than the best memory"
- Chinese Proverb
Our memories are faulted, intertwined with perception and emotion when created and subject to the same mental imperfections, though likely altered in details, when recalled. Tradition is rooted in memory. How closely tied to memories, to our past selves is how connected we are to tradition. Breaking the tradition may re-write future memories.
There are several holidays in my memory spent alone, away from family, friends on the periphery only. They aren't sad memories, per se, as much uneventful, like any other day, indistinctive from the majority.
This year I'll be cooking Christmas Eve dinner for my family, though sadly without my youngest sister. I'll be in PJs and sipping a mimosa Christmas morning, lounging all afternoon. And I'm giving hand-made gifts (said the artist). We're not exactly breaking tradition at our house but we are creating good memories, where we spend time together laughing and relaxing and enjoying each other's company, and one where I don't try to steal my sister's gift. After all, December 21st 2011 begins the one-year countdown to doomsday, according to some readings of the Mayan calendar. Ladies and Gentlemen, this could be the Last Christmas. Let's make it a good one, eh? And make some notes, too.
- Wishing everyone a Merry Christmas, love & joy, and wonderful new memories.
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