I have spent many a Yuletide being visited by ghosts of past, present, and future, and I am satisfied that there is neither shadow nor shade of Ebenezer Scrooge living in my heart. Even during the worst times of my life, never have I ever been grumpy, miserly, or mean-spirited about this season. For me, although they sometimes seemed to last forever, the long nights provided opportunities for internal reflection and a deeper appreciation of both light and dark.
It did not matter which seasonal holiday I was celebrating, avoiding, or mourning. No matter how many times I deliberately cracked my heart open by watching sappy movies or listening to McLachlan’s Wintersong album on repeat so I could wallow and drown in emotion and become alive again after weeping myself to sleep, I never completely lost sight of the magic that holds this time of year cupped in sacred and capable hands. During the hard times, I relied upon that magic to steady me through my sorrow and grief, and in these hard times now, I am doing the same.
To be clear, one should never equate those hands with any sort of predetermined outcome for those who inhabit lives generally based in the earthly realm. I had this talk once (once was enough) with Brigid when I wrote a prayer that included this line:
…keep safe inside your faithful hands the essence of each warrior’s life.
That is a conversation for another season, but I mention it now because it is important to recognize the difference between what we want and how we ask or work toward it, and what we think we know and what is true beyond our immediate understandings and demands.
Here we are, many of us having reached a saturation point, living in possibly unprecedented awareness of shared and collective trauma, wondering how to still observe and participate in the sacred, holy days or simply how to hold on to our faith. And yes, I know. I know. On personal, local, and regional levels, people have always faced this challenge, and I am not negating or mitigating those struggles. But certainly, in these times, with the speed of light connections and sharing of words and images, we are, as a whole, more attuned to the darkness imposed by humankind versus the natural darkness of this time of year.
Some of us have gone numb and non-functional; others are deep in the season and lighting candles, decorating trees, celebrating the return of the Sun, and practicing so many other traditions and acts of faith and love that this writer cannot name them all. And there are entire other segments of humanity that function somewhere in the wide and diverse lands between those two places. I, myself, am holding space in the in-between this year.
Candle and deer [B. Rhodes]
My mother shaped and nurtured my belief in the elemental magic of this season during my early childhood when Merry Christmas, Happy Yule, and Happy Holidays were routinely interchangeable and inoffensive greetings. She was not an actively practicing Christian at that time, and her primary focus on the holiday was a more secular celebration of Christmas. Within the boundaries of our home, she created a winter fairyland where beauty, light, and wonder held court for days and nights on end. In doing so, she also created, at least for me, an association of such imagery with feelings of safety and love.
My siblings and I would leave for school on a random winter morning and arrive home in the afternoon to find the house transformed with reindeer, elves, Santa Clause, candles, windchimes, green and gold garland, giant candy canes, sleighs, and a hundred other wonders.
Of course, there were angels among the decorations, little cherubs in choir robes, and the sweet little ceramic nativity scene gifted to my mother by my father’s father took pride of place atop the wooden cabinet of the console television every year. The little baby Jesus was nestled in the manger amid real straw, and we were allowed to move the attending parents, shepherds, camels, wise men, and donkey around if we were careful. My Grampa Barker passed away before I was born, and my mother deeply cherished the physical representations of the affection he showed her. Her gentle spirit and broken self-esteem seemed to find reassurance in sharing those badges of love with other people.
In retrospect, I am amazed that she allowed children’s hands to touch that fragile treasure. I have no way of knowing for certain if making us aware of the sentimental and emotional value of the pieces and then giving us permission to interact with them was an intentional weaving on her part. Knowing my mother now as I wish I had then, I do believe that was one of the ways she shared the magic of the season with her children. She connected with and poured herself into doing so to create memories for all of us because she could finally have what was never available during her own childhood.
Jeannie Barker, the author’s mother, celebrating Christmas circa 1960 [courtesy]
In the same way I was born into all the magic that is Autumn, my mother was born into the magic of Christmas. Her early life was not always so pleasant as her first day in this realm when she entered an impoverished family during the Great Depression, the third daughter of what eventually were twelve children of alcoholic parents. To say that the love was imperfect would be a kindness.
She cherished the story of her special beginning, which could only have been related to her by one or both of her parents. I cherish the story because it made her happy and because it gives a glimpse of the tender ways magic sometimes begins to grow in our lives. So, here is a tiny tale of Christmas within this larger tale of wonder:
Once upon a long ago Christmas Eve, two young sisters went to sleep, dreaming of the presents that Santa might bring them. They had asked the old elf to bring a new dolly and a cradle for her to sleep in.
When they awoke early on Christmas morning, they ran to the tree in their living room to see if Santa had been there. And lo, there beneath the tree was a cradle with a baby doll inside, swaddled in a blanket. She looked so real!
Then the baby moved her head and waved her tiny fist near her sweet face.
How startled and excited those little girls were. Santa left them a real baby!
I like to envision that scene as it played out beneath a Christmas tree 85 years ago when my mother was born at home. Although her family life was frequently troubled, on that day, she was welcomed with a great deal of love and sweet humor. Whatever happened in her young life in the 30-odd years between her birth and my own early memories of Christmas, she held on to that spark of magic until she could make it her own. Then she passed it on to her children, grandchildren, and many other people.
Here in the in-between space this year, that spark of Jeannie’s magic mingles with my own, warming my heart and home. I am celebrating the season quietly and gently, focusing on compassion, love, peace, and the returning light.
Whether by nature or nurture, I absorbed my mother’s love of the wonderland theme, but as the years have gone by, my tendency has been to decorate for the season with the flow of my current energy level. Decorations are scaled back significantly this year: a single table display with a few snowmen, a small tree, a candle, a lantern-shaped snow globe, and two tiny deer that remind me of ones on display in my childhood. These items are as much a nod to my mother as to the season and the Solstice, I suppose. There is contentment in honoring the spark, and that thread of magic that runs between us holds all the wonder of the season that ever was and ever will be.
Let it snow! [B. Rhodes]
One of my best childhood memories is of lying on my back and shimmying under the Christmas tree in the corner of the darkened playroom. I stayed there forever, looking up at the lights in the branches, enchanted by the way they cast shadows and were reflected by the ornaments in the tree. There is no tree to wiggle under anymore, but the glow and flicker of candlelight provide a nice focal point for reflection and help to keep the wrong kind of darkness at bay, as the simple beauty summons the association of a mother’s gift of safety and love.
In the process of composing this piece, my mind and memories have traveled from Victorian London (Dickens classic and the Muppet movie version) to winters in upstate New York, and finally home to this little river valley in the Appalachian Mountains of western North Carolina. I am still thinking about the purpose of honoring Yule and/or the Winter Solstice or whatever holy days one celebrates at this time of year. I recently had a conversation with a friend in which we discussed that purpose and why artists of all makes and models continue to try to create beauty and connection amid the chaos of this world. We agreed that without those elements, we have nothing and risk the total loss of not only our humanity but our connection to Spirit and the Divine.
Dolly Parton, the Appalachian American goddess of love and compassion, gave the world a gift with her recordings and performances of Carol Hall’s song “Hard Candy Christmas.” A hard candy Christmas was one when times were so bad that people who did not have much money would give inexpensive candy to their children as a Christmas gift because it was all they could afford.
This is where the magic of this season holds me steady – during times when life is simultaneously hard and sweet. It allows me to see the chaos and sorrow without losing sight of the promise and the beauty that is everywhere. I simply have to remember to look and listen in the right places and to share the spark of magic with others.
I’ll be fine and dandy
Lord, it’s like a hard candy Christmas
I’m barely getting through tomorrow
But still, I won’t let sorrow bring me way down
Blessed Solstice, friends. The light is returning.
The Wild Hunt is not responsible for links to external content.
To join a conversation on this post:
Visit our The Wild Hunt subreddit! Point your favorite browser to https://www.reddit.com/r/The_Wild_Hunt_News/, then click “JOIN”. Make sure to click the bell, too, to be notified of new articles posted to our subreddit.