Christmas Nation

Snowy early Solstice morning in Malvern









Three days until Christmas, and the natives are freaking out.
Too much to do, buy, think about …
Too many lights, carols, scented candles, plastic garlands …
Too many people you know, don’t know, brush past in the ever-expanding crowds …
Too many stores, web ads, and sales that don’t even make sense anymore …

Christmas Nation is rising, morphing into a full-throated beast in mid-frenzy. It shouts in our ears and tugs at our coats. It assaults our senses, and over-stimulates our children. We fear we cannot handle it. And, some of us are right.

Worse, it’s spreading a contagious disease: Wuntumani-itus. You’ve gone to one too many parties, baked one too many batches of cookies, had one too many drinks at the office party, and your hand starts shaking when you write that last “Happy Holidays!” with gold-glitter ink on that last card. Maybe it’s the flu. Maybe you’re going over the edge.

Because, now you are snarling at the nice woman who gave you the parking space at the mall where you rushed to pick up something for the Pollyanna your daughter forgot to tell you about … that’s tomorrow. And, the line’s ten deep at Claire’s Boutique, because you’re not the only parent needing a Sophie Sweet beaded purse for tomorrow’s Pollyanna. And, of course, your daughter has to go to the bathroom down the dark back mall hall where you wouldn’t even travel alone.

Your Christmas bonus was disappointing, because you don’t have a corner office, or the hope of a golden parachute. And, since you’ve bought into the Christmas-means-presents dogma for years, you worry that you won’t be able to do enough. And, you just wish you could skip the whole thing.

Then, your daughter says, “Look Mom! It’s snowing!”

You look up as the flakes drift downward, illuminated like tiny falling stars by the parking lot lights, and you don’t think that the snow-blower’s broken, or that the morning rush hour will be hell.

You just say, “Yeah,” and return her smile.

O Holy Night …