Christmas. It’s come a long way, hasn’t it? When I was a child, it was weeks of tradition and carol singing and anticipation: Would Santa get my note? Would he remember where I lived? Had I been a good girl? There was mystery and magic and waking up far too early to find presents at the foot of my bed and stockings hanging from the mantle and the house magically decorated with paper chains and pleated bells…and the tree, humbly adorned. No lights back then. And for my brother and me, it was two days of happy family; an island of love and harmony and fun that the other 363 days of the year were completely devoid of. But the fact that it existed for two days was proof that it was possible.

I stopped believing in religion when I was fifteen, but I still loved Christmas, even though most of them during my teens and early 20’s disappointed… I still kept believing.

When my daughter was two, I was a single mum on welfare. My car cost 50 bucks and came without a key; I started it by inserting a kitchen knife and turning. Too poor to buy decorations for a tree, every morning for a month I pierced each end of an egg with a needle and blew out the egg to scramble for my Izzy’s breakfast. The week before Christmas I drew the names of our loved ones in glue on the shells and Izzy sprinkled the glitter. But what to do about a tree?

Some kind soul told me that just up the mountain from us was a Christmas tree farm and that after 6pm on Christmas Eve you could cut down your own tree for free. So off we trundled with a borrowed hacksaw. For all my disbelief in religion I have to say that there was something biblical about our little odyssey. The field was mainly stumps with a handful of trees left standing, all of them far too big for our humble abode. But as our eyes became accustomed to the dark, we saw a wee one all alone, maybe two and half feet tall. Kneeling on the earth, we each took one end of the hacksaw and as it fell, we wept.

Over the years, ornaments were made and collected along with husbands, boyfriends, houses, flats and cabin with no running water. All of it long gone. But the belief remains.

One year, I bought a very tall tree for our New York flat. When I got it home the thought of decorating it was daunting. So I cut off all the bottom branches and basically ended up with a small tree with a very long trunk.

The next year, I cut large letters out of cardboard, smeared them with glue and affixed thousands of pine needles. Worked for me.

Here are a couple more Barrett trees.

And one of my favourites for those of you who are “tired” of Christmas.

This year I’ve gone quite suburban: fake tree, pre-lit, gold ornaments. Just Dandy. And I don’t have to feel bad about chopping down a living thing and then throwing it out.

I’m sitting by the fire as I write this, looking up once in a while to the tree. I think about my Mum and Dad and the herculean effort it must have taken every year to provide us with 2 days of happiness and magic. My parents didn’t drink, but every Christmas, with the dinner my Dad would have a glass of port, my mum a sherry. I can see those glasses now; one ruby red, the other amber, twinkling in their cut glass. In. my childhood mind they were the magic potions that enabled my parents to become what they couldn’t be the rest of the year. When I was about 10, while they were busy in the kitchen, I took a sip of each one and I remember the warm glow that spread in my chest. That’s probably when the seed of alcoholism took root in me. The thing I kept turning to in my long search for happiness until I finally felled it 37 years ago.

And here it is… Christmas again. And we are all rushing around trying to recreate the perfection: the perfect gifts, the perfect meal, the perfect tree. When really what we are longing for is the promise of what it’s really about: kindness, generosity of spirit, harmony, forgiveness, joy, peace…and love…for everyone.

I still believe. I hope you do, too.

With Love,

Maggie

GLAD TIDINGS

RETURNING