Sometimes, it is more blessed to receive
by Stephanie Piper
Come December, I dream of simplicity. I fantasize about a minimalist Christmas somewhere in the north woods, with a tree we cut ourselves and trim with popcorn garlands and light with real candles.
I dream of ancient carols like "Lo, How a Rose e'er Blooming," sung a cappella by a fire. I dream of the people I love in a wide, unbroken circle. No one is weary. No one is anxious. No one is lonely, or careworn, or hungover. We're all there, wherever there is, safely arrived and glad to see one another.
We tell the old stories, remembering those Christmas Eves when my husband and I would climb to the roof of our Manhattan apartment building and jingle bells and make reindeer noises to convince the little boys in 12B that Santa was coming, chimney or no chimney. We sing the songs and tell the stories and then everyone opens presents. Everyone gets a book. Everyone takes a turn reading aloud. We go to church and then we sit down to roast beef. We go outside and make snow angels. We doze and wake and smile.
I dream of a day like this one, but up to now, I have not managed it. Well, not all of it. I like to think I have gotten the unbroken circle part right. It's the simplicity part that eludes me.
To look at my Christmas, you'd think I had grown up during the Depression. It's as though I'm trying to make up for years of scarcity or afraid that someone is going to buy all the Shetland sweaters and cashmere mufflers in the universe before I can wrap and tag them. I overdo it. I don't know why.
Maybe its because—despite my minimalist fantasies—I still believe that more is more. Maybe I just like the look of all those shiny boxes piled knee-high around the tree.
Or maybe it's because I have no gift for receiving.
For me, Christmas is about abundance. It's about attention to detail, and the completion of lists, and the engineering of the perfect moment. I've been at this for the 30-plus years I have been a mother, and there are times when I remind myself of a manic game-show host. Keep it moving. Keep it dazzling. You ask, I deliver.
Now I wonder if there is a connection between the abundance I churn out each December and my yearning for less. I wonder if my tidal wave of giving, planning and stage-managing has drowned the generous impulses of those around me. Sometimes I wonder if love is about coming empty-handed. What do you give to the one who has anticipated every wish, bought every bauble, tied every bow?
This year, I have surrendered. We're going north, though not exactly to the woods. We have entrusted Christmas to our children, at their request. We will be their guests, the ones for whom clean towels are produced and carpets vacuumed and roses arranged. It will be up to them to find the perfect tree and untangle the lights. They will cook the standing rib roast. They might let me make the gravy, but I'm not counting on it.
'Tis a gift to be simple, runs an old Shaker hymn. It may just be the perfect gift, the one that has eluded me so far. Empty hands. Abundant grace.
December 25, 2003 * Vol. 13, No. 52
© 2003 Metro Pulse
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