I put Christmas away today. The festivities were done, the gifts settled into their new lives, and the wrapping tissue recycled. All that remained were unlit strands and dusty spheres hanging limp upon a fake tree. I had grown weary of their accusatory presence, the way they seemed to mourn the passing of the season.
Traditionally, my mother never took the tree down until January 6th, the Epiphany. It was the day the Three Kings strode into the manger, bringing Gold, Frankincense, and Myrrh. For us four children, there was always one last small gift tucked into the branches. It was a tradition I carried on for my own daughters, even as they grew into women.
Like the dismantled decorations, our tree has long forgotten the weight of those final gifts, but it hasn’t forgotten the date. This January 6th ritual is a thread that connects me to my children, my childhood, and a long line of mothers before me, even those whose lives were steeped in the Hinduism of my mother’s heritage rather than the traditions of the Church. It is a lineage of hands, all doing the same work of keeping the light.
This is our second Christmas in this house. Last year, discovering I had left our old decorations in a storage unit in Calgary, I bought and crafted brand-new ones to adorn the branches of the tree I bought. But as I began tucking them away this year, I felt a sudden, heavy lack of memory. The ornaments felt like strangers in my hands. To me, the soul of Christmas is found in the tug of memory; the way a single glass bulb can tether us to every December we have ever lived, and even, in subtle ways, to the ones yet to come.
So, this year, I decided to create a new history.
With each decoration, I wove a story in my head about its journey home. The crystal balls I bought with my daughter in Vancouver became the prized possessions of a little girl who sang songs into the glass, hoping that one day, whoever held them would hear her sweet voice and feel at home, wherever in the world they were. Three miniature pottery houses became the dwellings of a fairy family whose only job was to light the forest with their sparkle, until a hunter found them and brought them home to his wife, who cherished them until her last breath.
And on it went.
As these stories wove into the ritual of packing, I felt the heaviness lift. I love Christmas, but I have found it harder to savour when the traditions I once held dear have come unwound through moving and the shifting facts of life.
But today, I found myself smiling at the past, rather than regretting its shifting sands. I stopped mourning the boxes left behind and began to cherish the artifacts in my hands. As I tucked each crystal ball away, I didn’t just see decorations; I heard the faint, shimmering echo of a little girl’s song. I didn’t see store-bought pottery; I saw the lingering glow of fairy light.
I put Christmas away today. It was no longer a chore, but a moment of respite. A quiet bow to the laughter of the past and a soft invitation to the Christmases yet to come. Whatever the future brings, and whoever pulls up a chair to the table, there will be stories to tell: some newly lived, and some gently released to the stars.
Dare Boldly 