Under the Tree.
I talked before about how aging can add depth and richness to the soul. It's true! I'll show you how that is true for me.
First of all, I love the middle of the night when most of the world is asleep, and it seems so quiet you can hear the stars twinkle.
Late last night on Christmas Eve, I awoke in the middle of the night, as I often do, and gazed at the scene under my Christmas tree. Above you see part of that scene as it appeared this year. It is an odd or incongruent scene composed of items not carefully laid out or situated.
The items are not expensive. In fact, some are downright cheap. Most show the wear of the years. Some are broken or incomplete. They come from different years and different eras and even different homes.
The items in the scene aren't as magnificent as the items I imagine under the trees of Elon Musk or any of a million other rich and famous people, but in a way these pieces are much better. Each item under the tree has a richness of depth of feeling that only accumulates through the years. It is deep, like looking into the starlit sky at night and into the black darkness in between the bright spots that you know must also hold distant stars yet unseen.
Looking at my little scene under the tree, I see my mom, and dad and grandma and grandpa. They, like some of the items, according to the vision of the eye, are now missing from my personal Christmas scene - but they are still there. I see what is there in the present, but in my heart, I see much more. I see the accumulated depth and richness of the years.
I see the ornaments my grandma made. I see how proud she was of her crafts. I think she intended all along for those items to be around well beyond her years. And they are.
She always tried to make the Holidays special. And she did. They are not forgotten.
She was not alone. In my scene, I see my dad working hard each day, getting up and going out to work before I awoke. He got to work early, got his tools ready, and climbed electric poles in rain and sleet and hail. His hands were thick and hardened. He was tough. He did it for a purpose - one that made my life much easier for me and provided many of the extras, as little or large as they might have been.
Under the tree, I see much more than is really there. I see the Lionel trains dad purchased and the toys that filled the front room of the house he built with his own hands. And I see myself through the years excitedly emerging from my bedroom to see what awaited me under the tree each Christmas morning.
In my little scene, I see the cheap little cardboard houses covered with glitter that were made in Japan and sparkled under my tree. Some of my wife's little houses and figures are there too. Our scenes became combined. I can see her excitement as a child too. I've seen some of her pictures as well as the items she brought from her childhood. But I can also see it in her very being. Maybe she had fewer toys under her tree, but I'm sure it was no less special as the kitchen buzzed with her grandma and mother as they made potica (pronounced, po-TEE-tsa), a traditional Slovenian food that my wife was taught to make by her mother. My wife came from the same optimistic post-World War II world although she grew up in somewhat different circumstances. Now are two worlds have become one.
But as I sit late at night in the room lit only by my Christmas tree and gaze at the scene under my tree, I can see through the years. I see the skater and skier frozen in position exactly as they always posed around Christmas time on grandma's buffet, which was a piece of furniture beside the dining table where we always had our Christmas eve meal. Grandpa sits at the end of the table, my sister and I next to the windowed wall, dad at the other end and grandma next to the kitchen door through which she disappeared and appeared several times through the progress of each meal.
The metal skater with one leg raised and extended was always on a mirror that looked like and frozen icy pond, and the crouched metal skier skied on a layer of cotton cloth.
I could go on to describe the history of each piece under my tree, including the missing pieces as well as those that are present under the tree this year, but I won't. To do so would be to describe what made me and who I am.
Just the other day I saw the metal sledder somewhere. He's still around here, and of course, he is still wearing his blue jacket, but I didn't see his yellow sled. His mitten covered hands are still grasping the yellow sled that isn't there, but I can still clearly see the sled. Another scene appears. I was riding my own sled down a snow-covered hill behind grandma's house when the sled hit a small stump buried in the snow. My sled came to a sudden halt while I continued to slide across the encrusted snow in the same position but without my sled. I always thought that was funny.
When I gaze at the scene of miscellaneous surviving pieces under the star-like twinkling lights, the magic happens. Some important pieces are missing - most importantly many of the people that made my life are no longer here. That part brings a tear to my eye. But when I look again at the little scene under the tree, it all comes back. I can see the years of life all combined into one deep rich scene.
The years aren't gone. They are still there. I can see them. Grandma is still orchestrating the holidays. Mom is helping. Dad watches after making so much of it happen, and grandpa is smoking his pipe. And sitting here in the midst of all that on Christmas Eve, I smile. Thank you, God. It was a wonderful life. It was a wonderful life, but It still IS.*
Merry Christmas to All.
And Wishing You the Many Timeless Treasures of Christmas.