Meaningful Christmas essay

We Hardly Knew Ye: an essay about the Season, by Dorie McKeeman, of Hollis, New Hampshire.

This lovely essay was published in the AAA Northern New England Journey, January/;February 2019 edition.

In the narrative, the author McKeeman draws out the human emotions in response to the traditions, and symbols we hold dear. She describes how nature and traditions converge, while reflecting on the ritual of taking down our Christmas Trees.
We share her experience, each in our own way.

In my home, when growing up in Baltimore, this symbolism was evident to our neighborhood, as well as to those of us in the family, because our tree did not come down until after the Epiphany.  

This was because, in the Eastern Rite religious beliefs, those of my father's heritage, it was our tradition to observe the Feast of the Epiphany, by keeping up the Christmas Tree, although, most other families had taken theirs down.

Dorie McKeeman wrote:

Taking down the Christmas tree is always bittersweet.  

Behold our Christmas tree, so welcome a guest some weeks ago.  The stalwart symbol still stands tall and trimmed, releasing its fragrance of fir.  Hardy, hearty branches, like arms uplifted, refuse to droop, green needles still cling. But, the calendar has turned over its 12 days since Christmas, Epiphany - Three Kings Day - has come. The annual ritual is upon me.

And yet....

I come to the task with apology on my lips, a twinge of regret in my heart, and a final, full embrace.  Burying my face into the tinseled, twinkling boughs, I remember the rush oficy air that swirled up the stem when this vibrant visitor first arrived in our living room- such a bracing anticipation of the season! The, the colors of the day were warm, regal, and bold; crimson, violet, green, gold. Music in the air sounded - even felt- full, and round, and lush, expansive with dancing, and reverence and joy: The first noel....fa-la-la-la....and lo...ye faithful....sleigh bells...snow...O Tannenbaum...a midnight manger...holly...holy...I'll be home.

Now, across the snow-laden yard in the late afternoon's dimming light, a skimming layer of fog amplifies January's bleak palette. Naked oaks and maples in lengthening silhouette peer through our window.  Having shed their own decorations months ago, they've been savoring our cheery indoor display of colored lights, and ornaments, beads, and garland. As winter's spare watchmen, they sympathize with this cyclic undressing.  They understand what "season" means.

I hesitate, release a breath, and nod an affirmation. For its weeks as the gracious, steadfast overseer of our family's celebrations of the coming of the Light of the World, our Christmas tree accepts my respectful thanks.

Now, it is dusk. Storage boxes huddle with a knowing patience, converging at the doorway. Outside, the dispersing fog reveals the current season's stark colors: Black, scraggly branches pierce a sky of deepening midwinter blue, and dark trunks sink into a coat of white.  The view looks like the cover art on my favorite winger music, there atop our stack of holiday music CDs. Aah- what do the sages say about coincidence?  I tuck A Winter's Solstice in to play, close my eyes, and invite this haunting spell of songs to stretch and span the seasons.

For a few more moments, Christmas lingers; time holds its breath. The, music meant to greet the dawn tip-toes in and (so fitting even at twilight) the serene yet stirring strains of "New England Morning" usher me through this turning time.

Because, no matter the fervent resolutions or the partying crowds or the date on the calendar, until I honor this rite- taking down the Christmas tree- my heart does not fully embrace the new year.

I reach up and lift the golden star from the highest bough.