Twinkle Twinkle

My Christmas lights are still up.
Yep. It is April, you are not mistaken. Not exterior lights, mind you – I don’t festoon my dwelling with a National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation holiday display. But, indoors…where I can see them. And, I don’t know if they will ever come down.

I am atheistic. I don’t believe in the traditional vision of a “God.” A single, supreme being that in some form or fashion dictates our existence. I do believe that we humans have abilities that exceed our current knowledge. I also believe that we are most definitely not alone in the Universe. I believe that there are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio…But not a true “God.” Accordingly, I do not believe that Jesus was the son of “God,” but I do not completely discount the idea that he walked this earth as a person and had profound impact on social and cultural development. When I celebrate Christmas, it is as a secular celebration. A winter holiday of glad tidings, peace and joy. At that time of year, it is a much needed opportunity to brighten the spirits of humanity. And, frankly, it is fun.

Colors, sparkles, stories, spangles , animated television specials, music, voices raised in song…there is much to enjoy at the Christmas season. But the lights are the best. As an environmentalist, I should shudder at the massive increase in electricity use during the holiday season, but I put aside my moral misgivings and enjoy the sight. Houses dressed with tiny pinpoints of pure energy. We humans seek light with as much drive as we seek water and the Christmas season allows us to drink deep. Whether a single candle in the window of a tiny cottage or a neighborhood engaged in a battle to recreate the illumination of the Sun itself, the lights of the season are the thing for which I look most forward.

I grew up in Louisiana during the 60’s and 70’s – a time and place not known for understated or subtle decoration. Martha Stewart’s magazine would have quickly met with bankruptcy if that was the target demographic. Accordingly, our light displays could graciously be described as tacky. My parents lacked the motivation or funding to create exterior displays, but we did have a tree each year that was brilliant with lights. Bloated, painted, colored atrocities that threatened to cripple our 3-ft artificial TG&Y tree. From an aesthetic standpoint, it was an abomination. The paint on the bulbs was scratched and the color used for the paint were the most unappealing shades of green, blue, orange, yellow and red. But, to me, it was beautiful. I would go so far as to crawl out of my little bed and toddle into the living room to watch the tree in the dark of the night. Perhaps it was influenced by the fact that the clarity of my vision was already in decline and detail was not as sharp as it could be, but I was mesmerized by the colorful, glowing bulbs. The rest of the tree interested me not one whit. This was fortunate in that our ornaments were of the bulk-package Sears variety. But, oh, the lights. I never figured out how my father was able to replace a terminal strand of lights with another aging, decrepit example every single year, but for my childhood I delighted in their flickering, sputtering splendor.

As I grew up, the Christmas tree became less and less important, as the importance of other concerns grew. We still had a tree, but I do not remember it shining as brightly. Perhaps it is just the cloud of old, hard memories blocking the glow. Upon the passing of both my parents and my journey into my new life in marriage, I pushed each year for a tree and lights. My husband was Jewish, but his family was of the Reform branch. Every year his mother threw a Christmas party for 200 or so people. Their house blared Christmas music from November to February and Santa Claus shared equal billing with dreidels on the sideboard. He was not unfamiliar with the holiday, but was not one to be enthused with its celebrations. So, each year was a Herculean effort to get a tree, provide it with decoration, string lights and take time each evening to dim the overhead illumination and just enjoy the glittering pinpricks with a cup of cocoa or a glass of wine. And pinpricks they were. My tastes had followed the 80’s downsizing trend and I forsook the bulbous bulbs of my childhood in favor of their smaller brethren. But, they were still colored. Those multi-colored strands that remind one of Mardi Beads worn too early in the season.

It was during this season that I made the decision to leave my husband. We had been in decline for a long time and our goals, ambitions, wants and needs were never going to positively mesh. It was time to move on. I packed my belongings and left our house for a run-down tiny apartment in a disreputable area of town. I moved in with my few pieces of faltering furniture one cold morning and by afternoon, found my new home invaded by my colleagues from the research laboratory at which I worked. They brought copious food, booze, housewarming materials (blessedly practical like blankets and household tools) and an artificial tree with packs of lights. I will never look on a party with more fondness than the one spurred spontaneously by the generosity of my friends.

My next apartment was hard won through the acquisition of my teaching certificate and the commensurate salary increase I enjoyed. Larger, brighter and safer. My first Christmas found me craving the sights and sounds of the holiday and I richly decorated my space with ornaments, filled the rooms with song and perfumed the air with candles. And I got a big tree. A really big tree. I had 12-ft ceilings and I used them to the fullest. After the installation of the naked fir in my living room, I marched to the store and returned with a lawn and leaf bag filled with lights. Strand upon strand I laid upon the tree. Then, reflective garland and Christmas balls. Nothing chipped, nothing scratched. In fact, all were brand new. Silver, gold, white and burgundy. I got shiny, wide ribbon from the fabric store and let it flow over and down the length of the tree. It was the one time in my life that I can truly state that I had a “beautiful” tree. It was like something out of a magazine. Visitors were in awe of this display of holiday cheer. And it was embracable. I wanted to hug it each evening as I dimmed the living room lights and gazed at the merry brilliance. Bright white lights reflected from the rich gold, sparkling silver and stately burgundy. And white lights they were. I had made the last leap. I had been evolving in my light life throughout my own life. I now wanted white. Small and white. Whether a few or a few hundred, I wanted tiny, pure emissions of crystallized radiance.

Now, I am in my own home. Truly my own “home.” It is mine, my name is on the deed, not the lease. In my old apartment, I had many things. I realized that even though I had the space for my possessions, I did not want them anymore. I looked at the ceiling-height shelving filled with books and selected only a few boxes to retain. I sorted carefully through my dining ware, clothes, decorative items and furnishings and kept only the tiniest fraction of my holdings. The rest met an unhappy fate. I hired a removal company to purge everything from my residence, save the few pieces I would take with me to my new life. Three dumpsters of my past were hauled away…And I started fresh. Clean. Unfettered. Uncluttered. Of course, I’ve added things, but with a new vision. As the holidays approached, I was often asked the question – when are you getting your tree? And, this gave me pause. I had not even considered the idea of a tree. My living room faces our little street. The street receives many walkers, cyclists, children at play…it is a true neighborhood street. A tree in a window would be seen by all, including myself. It would add to the holiday merriment in a way that could be shared by my new friends and neighbors.

But, I didn’t want a tree. I did not want to shop for ornaments. I did not want to shop for a tree. I did not want to rearrange my furniture to accommodate its bulk. And, I found it just had no real meaning for me anymore. The need for a large and mighty prince of the forest was just not with me anymore. I was really in the perfect place to have a tree, too. My own home in a neighborhood that pleased me more than I could have ever expected. A friendly, safe New England neighborhood in a friendly, safe New England town. But, I didn’t want a tree. I did, however want lights. The tradition of my youth that I have carried forward is that the Christmas tree is set up and decorated the afternoon of Thanksgiving.
On Thanksgiving day of this year, I was alone. As part of my solitary celebration I walked in the brisk autumn air to the drugstore a mile or so away and bought two strands of small white lights. No balls, no garland, no stars or snowflakes. I walked home and put a Christmas cd into my stereo. With a hot beverage in hand, I carefully wound one strand around each of the artificial ficus trees that inhabit each side of my living room. Just one strand on each. A few lights peeking out through the leaves. Every day, I plug them in when I return from work and each night extinguish one when I go to bed. The ficus that fills my front window stays lit. It was and remains my contribution of light to my neighborhood. Giving back to it a small portion of the light that it has given to me.

Ok, and I got a poinsettia – sue me.