No, I haven’t taken my Christmas tree down yet, but I think it’s time. The poor thing is literally wilting because I have forgotten to water it for … well, it’s been a long time. The strings of lights are beginning to slide off the drooping branches fallen ornaments are beginning to litter the floor—yesterday one of the cats had one in her mouth, but dashed under the bed when I tried to rescue it. I suspect there’s a whole stash under there.
But this fragrant green tree, with its sparkly lights and familiar baubles has been my companion now for almost a month of dark mornings as I sit on my couch, enjoying my toast and coffee, and savoring the stillness and solitude before the day really gets started.
This is the view from where I sit every morning (including as I write this, although this photo was taken several weeks ago).
This is my second tree in this home—last year was the first year I had the spoons to face all the complicated emotions that holiday decorating came to represent in the aftermath of my divorce, and of losing the home I had made and raised a family in. Before that, for the first three years in this new house, the thought of decorating for the holidays still felt too raw, and this new house didn’t yet feel like home. I wasn’t ready to commit.
I’m still not completely sure that I am—it’s kind of too big, now that my son has moved out, and the sensory overload of living in a loud, gritty urban neighborhood is sometimes too much. I love the city, but often I long to be able to step outside and fill my eyes with natural beauty—water, or woodland, or wide green fields. My midwestern roots yearn to be able to see the horizon.
But the thought of moving also overwhelms me, even if it were financially feasible (which it probably is not any time in the near future). And the truth is that as long as my kids are here in Philly, I’m not going to move far. As much as any house, they are home to me.
But the house matters too. The house itself. This is the house that I “unmasked” in; the house where I created a safe retreat with the love of my life; the house where I gathered a new community, both virtual and embodied; the house in which I discovered myself as an artist and a maker; the house in which, starting from scratch in the second half of my life, I came home to myself.
Yes, the Christmas tree needs to come down this weekend. But even though my Christmas tree is ephemeral, just like the season it brightens, it’s also now a tradition. A ritual. This is the second tree, the second year in a row in this house—and I have loved it oh so much. I can take it down now with gratitude, knowing that the seasons will spin around again and there will be another tree next year.
And that for all its faults, this house really has become my home.
(I’m still hell-bent on getting out of the city next August though!)