Christmas Tree Lights

Eighteen months. That’s how long one of my best friends in Virginia says it takes before a place starts to feel like home.

She might be right. I paused for a moment tonight in our dark living area, looking at the lights on the tree, petting Rosemary as she sat on her favorite spot on top of one of the couches. Dave had taken all the kids out, the older two to swim and the younger two to a date, giving me a rare, quiet moment in the house alone. We got a particularly good tree this year, taller and fuller than any tree I remember having before—it just has presence. The kids wanted to name it.

Holidays always make me nostalgic. Maybe that’s why I like tradition so much. I remember growing up with the rainbow lights on our artificial Christmas tree, lying under it peeking underneath the wrapping paper at my presents. I’d take off my glasses, watch the lights fuzz and blur together, and think, people with perfect vision don’t get to see the lights like this. I remember walking back to my Lawn room in college after a long day out, seeing the Rotunda and colonnades all lit up. I remember coming home Christmas breaks and sitting by the tree in the dark, thinking about what it was Christmas meant to me that particular year.

Having the holidays here feels right this year. That’s what I was thinking, looking at the lights tonight. Last year felt like going through the motions; my parents visited, which was great but triggered several months of depressive loneliness after. I don’t feel so disjointed or jarred anymore; I feel content to be here. This past Thanksgiving was one of the best I remember having, with family but also many friends squeezed around our huge table. We came up with a list of Christmas traditions we wanted to keep and they’ve all felt enjoyable—putting notes in stockings, letting the kids pick out secret gifts for their siblings at the dollar store, making the annual ornaments, converting the thanksgiving tree into an advent tree, listening to Christmas music, picking out and decorating the tree, even getting our photos taken. I’m upgrading some of our holiday décor and that feels fun too. 

Sometimes the holidays feel like they exist in relief, defined by whatever events are going on in life or whoever we’re with as we’re celebrating them—and what strikes me this year is that, for the first time, it’s just us, here on our own as a family, where we will probably be forever, and it feels okay. I feel like I have the mental and emotional space to enjoy it. I suppose I have recovered enough from the move to be okay being who I am, where I am.