Celebrating Something Else

Politics | Recovery | Current Obsessions

I decided not to do Christmas this year.1 I suspected that giving up the hassle of gifts and dropped fir needles would give me some breathing room—but I prepared for it to be accompanied by wistful self-pity. Yet, this month has turned out to be one of the sweetest holidays I’ve ever had.

After my Thanksgiving Day leak was resolved and the water reclamation company removed their dehumidifiers and fans, it was already December 14. In my living room, shoved-aside furniture exposed a six-by-six-foot square of concrete where they’d ripped out my hardwood floor. Christmas decor would only draw attention to the chaos, I thought. It would only remind me of how low and alone I’d felt, even if I didn’t feel that way anymore.

When I was growing up, we brought out the Christmas decorations and put up the tree on my mom’s birthday, December 13. I tried to restart that particular tradition during my first post-divorce holidays and discovered that mid-December comes much earlier than it used to. By then, only the saddest Charlie Brown trees remain at the lots, the lush live wreaths are gone, and the decor that’s left is picked over and grimy with many hands. I resolved that it was both pointless and too late to make Christmas happen.

So I kept my little ceramic village, my mercury glass Christmas tree collection, and tasteful neutral garlands packed away. Instead, I decided to give the yard a bit of attention. In my stubbornly un-gentrified stretch of South Austin, Christmas is the apotheosis of a neighborhood consensus that every holiday needs inflatables, flashing lights, and giant plastic things. Keeping my yard completely dark would have been an insult.

Unwilling to add more plastic to my world, I went in search of a suitable live wreath for my door and found only tiny, sickly hoops. In desperation, I hit up Walmart. There were literally no fresh green things left. I picked up the best plastic approximation I could find. “I will keep this wreath forever,” I thought. “It will always be the wreath I bought the year I skipped Christmas.”

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On impulse, I added a Han Solo-in-carbonite ornament to hang on it: someone stuck in the past and waiting to be reborn. Star Wars Jesus to mark the New Year.

I strung up lights around my mailbox and framed them around the Harris-Walz sign I’ve refused to take down. Let no one believe I’ve been lazy or forgotten to retire it—I’m a journalist and going to be one of the first people the secret police take in, anyway.

Inside, there are no lights, no tree, no scented candles. No stockings, not even presents. No tinsel or bows. My biggest indoor concessions: Target gingerbread cookies and Trader Joe’s peppermint pseudo-Oreos.

My dad sent a plant. I got Christmas cards from an uncle and my bookkeeper. My best friend sent me an ornament—a sparkly cheese wedge—that’s the one thing that gives me a bit of a pang. But it’s on the bookcase you see when you walk in the front door. Maybe it’s worth keeping there year-round. When is it not good to be greeted with cheese?

The unexpected gift of this holiday season is an absence: I don’t feel like I’m missing out at all. Other people’s celebrations—Hanukkah, Christmas, Solstice, Kwanza—don’t inspire jealousy. I can admire my neighbors’ exuberance without comparison. I’m not avoiding other people’s joy; I’m simply finding something quieter inside myself.

To be clear: I’m not putting aside Christmas for something proudly heathen. I’m not doing it out of respect for other holidays, though that’s totally cool. I’m not refusing to take part in the capitalist frenzy. I’m a Christian, but scholars are fairly certain Jesus was not born on December 25, so that’s never been part of the reason for the season for me. I have only done Christmas as a secular event. I love the lights, the smells, and the food. I love giving presents and getting them, and reminding my friends I’ve thought about them for a whole twelve months again.

It’s nice to save money. It’s nice to not have to think about the post-Christmas cleanup or fight the crowds at stores or the post office. It’s nice to not feel the pressure to keep up traditions. But the nicest thing of all is to just be.

My year without Christmas allows me to reflect on what I’ve done and been through since last January 1 with a little more equanimity than usual. The longest night and shortest day don’t feel quite as dark. Time is often telescoped when we’re under pressure to make resolutions or renew annual rituals, even if you’re just not feeling it this time. My past year feels a whole year long and exactly that. I accomplished what I could, which is a lot. The stuff I didn’t do will get moved to next year, giving me all the time I need to do what I can—and not what I can’t.

The knock-on effects of making Christmas just another day (albeit with extra football and more movies to avoid) have conspired to remind me that every day is important. Every day is the day I can do something special for myself or for someone else. Every day is a good time to reflect with compassion on what I’ve given and gotten, what I’ve done and might do again… or know not to repeat.

I don’t plan on skipping Christmas again. The lights will seduce me. I love spiced cider, silly ornaments, and Santa hats in the boxes of the Zoom meetings I attend. I find enormous pleasure in picking out just the right gift. I wish for snow, even in Texas. The Ella Fitzgerald Christmas album and Vince Guaraldi cannot be ruined, even on an infinite loop.

But right now, I love the silence—even with no “Silent Night” to be found.

A reminder that you can join me for my non-Christmas Holi-taint Happy Hour mini-writing workshop 12/6-1/1 at 5pm ET, 4pm CT. More here.

Or take a look at my full-length workshop here.

Recovery-recovery is not a prerequisite! Everyone is recovering from something.