A few thoughts on Christmas Rituals

Or how the perfect tree became an act of defiance

Friday. The Friday after Thanksgiving. Black Friday in America, but not here. This morning there will be no 63 inch televisions bursting out of the back of my Subaru Outback, the power door hanging open to allow the bounty. There will be no rushing to be first in line for the privilege of snagging the toy which children must have, their high pitched whine declaring that they wouldn’t love us if we don’t get it. There will be no anxiously pulling the Amazon app down on our five and a half inch screens, hoping that by refreshing we might be the first to get the next deal. On this most consumerist of days in America, we will be defiantly, ritualistically, paganistically, refusing.

Photo by redcharlie on Unsplash

The forest outside of town is dusted with snow. Brown trails and green boughs peek out from the fallen white sugar, taunting us. An abysmal showing for December, but better than in town. We’ve hiked up the trail, dragging the hunter’s orange sled over the pockmarked slope in hopes of a good sled run. Four tiny blue mittens hold on tightly to the rails, with red and purple jackets and hats bobbing to avoid branches. We’re hoping their full body giggles will last long enough, will echo loud enough off the spindly trunks, that I might have enough liberty to find the perfect tree. 

*

Like many Christmas rituals, it’s a mystery how the tree got started. Most people assume it was an old Germanic tradition. The Germanic rituals, most likely to pagan gods of the solstice, predated the Christmas holiday, which wasn’t a celebration until 336AD. Before Constantine set the date of Christmas as December 25th, most felt it was a sin to worry about Jesus of Nazareth’s birth when his death was what showed him to be the Christ. But the Romans had a similar holiday before Christianity, before Jesus of Nazareth had even been born, in which they brought boughs into their home in December. But whatever the origin, I was out to perfect it.

*

“Don’t go too far, please,” she asks me. Her voice lingers, making sure I heard. She’d perfected that over the years, years spent worrying why I hadn’t come back when I said I would and wondering if she should call for help or wait just a little longer. Her brown eyes follow me as I leave the defined path for the chaos off it. I imagine they record the spot where I had turned off. I reach down, feeling the cylinder of bear spray on my left hip and the folding saw on my right hip. Both press into me as I scramble over fallen branches and around lesser trees, in search of just the right one.

The silence is notable. A groan croaks out from a tree not used to the weight of the snow and the wind as it bends down towards me. The muted thud shouts as I trounce over soft ground. It would never break through the hubbub of main street. But notably absent are the regular sounds of Christmas; the sounds that will define the next month. I don’t hear the shallow beat and sentimental lyrics of Do They Know It’s Christmas playing for the twentieth time on the radio already (how could anyone not know it’s Christmas when every radio station insists on announcing it with that dreadful tune?) I don’t hear the electrical whining of thousands of watts illuminating downtown like a Roman candle. I don’t hear the two toned bell from my phone as I pay for presents and treats with my phone, drooling over the instant gratification of taking everything to go like one of Pavlov’s dogs. Out here the silence says more than those ever can.

I study the trees. The ones near the trail are too short — I’m looking for something at least twelve feet tall — and the boughs are too thin to hold our ornaments. Everything bigger has already been picked clean over the years. I enjoy the hunt anyways.

Sandwiched between two giant aspens (each have trunks taller than my house and as thick as my saw) is one with promise. It has a nice shape, and it seems to reach for the light as if proclaiming the triumph of the skies. I start to feel the boughs, checking to see if they spring back. They do, and I’m pleased. But on the back side, halfway up, there’s a small nest buried inside. I can’t take this nest. So I keep walking.

*

In early America, Christmas was banned from the major cities. Apparently excessive drinking and fighting was common during the Christmas holidays, and before prohibition, the cities decided to simply ban the holiday. Imagine being arrested for showing a boughed wreath or a tree in your home. Imagine the fine for hanging a stocking in your shop. Imagine not seeing her brown curls hanging back, her neck arched up to take in the very top of the tree with its golden bow tied to the top and its lights declaring that the heavenly light is here. Or her chestnut eyes shining as she finds a present with her name on it. That would be too much.

Washington Irving said that Christmas was not only an indulgence but a spiritual necessity. “The season of regenerated feeling — the season for kindling, not merely the fire of hospitality in the hall, but the general flame of charity in the heart.” His writing was responsible for bringing Christmas back into the states in 1820. 

Maybe we need a modern Washington Irving to help us recapture it from the jaws of consumerism.

*

I’m starting to feel disappointed. Nothing looks good this year. Nothing matches the glory I have in mind for this ritual, and I wonder if I should go back. How long have I been gone anyways? I can’t hear anyone, can’t see the trail, can’t remember exactly how I got here. All I know is that I need to go down to get back to them. Maye just five more minutes.

As I crest a small berm, I think I see it. There, in a clearing all alone, stands the tree I want. Twelve feet tall with thick branches and sharp needles filling out the green spire to heaven. It’s geometrically perfect; the Pythagoreans would be awestruck. This is the one. I pull out my saw, unfold the blade, and reach under. The needles poke my arms leaving red welts, but I ignore them as I press the blade against the trunk.

Chhhhhhhh, Chhhhhh, Chhhhh. Short, rhythmic pulls. Again, and again, and again. Until…

Crrrraaaaacccckkkk

Like that the tree falls, the tip painting a rainbow through the sky until it points straight down the mountain. She is mine.

*

In the Christian tradition, the four Sundays leading up to Christmas are called Advent. It’s a time for waiting, a reminder of the emotional power of longing for something that will not be gratified instantaneously. It’s a decidedly unmodern idea. Revolutionary even. 

This year all I really want is to want it to be Christmas. I want to know that something special is coming, something special will happen, even as I don’t know exactly what. In our times, it’s too easy to know exactly what is coming, to have it now. But all around me, I’m surrounded by convenience. By other people wanting to make Christmas easy:

Here’s my Christmas list, just get me exactly these few things.
You ordered this on Amazon and it came the same day, I’m just going to use it now.

I understand all that convenience. But I don’t want easy; I want surprise. What are our rituals to remember longing, enchantment, pre-logical awe? What have we lost in the search for more comfort and efficiency? 

My search for just the right tree is my own ritual, a reminder that some things are worth waiting for. It doesn’t come quickly, and I like it that way. In the waiting, I make room for the numinous.

*

Now that the tree is mine, I have to drag it down. I wrap my leather mittens around the trunk, feel the handwarmers press into my palms, and start pulling. First I turn it around so the trunk faces downhill. Then I start tugging through the snow, steer it between trees, drag it over dirt and grass and shrubs. I stop to cut a fallen log that blocks my path. I change my grip, grab a branch to guide it over. Once I even stand it up so that I can tip it down the other way. I’m sweating, the cold perspiration dripping down my long underwear and into my boots. 

Finally I hear children crying, sled rails sliding, fighting the cold. It’s not exactly silver bells. I rush down to show my prize, but they’re unimpressed. Instead they cry tears of frustration which freeze before they hit the ground. Both have pink cheeks, a red nose, and frozen icicles of snot hanging off. They look through me, past the tree, down the trail. Time to go. We rush down, strap the kids into the warming car, and throw the tree onto the roof rack of the Outback. I tie it down quickly and get in. 

The whole way home I drive 25 mph, with my hazards on, praying we don’t get hit or lose the tree. I look out the passenger window and only see green. The tree is falling over and the kids are screaming. My wife wraps her brown fingers around my hand. “Are you okay?” she asks. I only smile. 

That evening we raise the tree onto the stand. Black arms hold the trunk upright. The kids, dressed in white fleece pajamas decorated with red sleighs, gently place colored glass balls onto the branches. I climb the metal ladder to tie the golden bow on the top. Small white lights rest on the branches, their reflections painting the walls. Christmas carols are playing on the TV, now relegated to the corner of the room. 

In days of old, it would have made the perfect centerpiece for a merry party. The kind in Dickens’ London at Mr. Fezziwig’s house. The chairs would all be cleared and the band readied for hours of celebration. Dancing, drinking, flirting, and general merriment. There would be wreaths and ales, dresses and feasts, tricks and treats. The dancing would likely have gone long into the evening, maybe until the morning sun starts to crest the horizon. Red cheeks and cheery smiles would have filled the room. Drunken nods and fun games would have echoed through the house.

Today though, the tree will be a quieter celebration. One where we look for ways to be thoughtful, to both celebrate and remember. On this Christmas eve, we will all curl under the tree with a good book. We’ll all unwind by soft light. Maybe there will be dancing, drinking, chocolate. There won’t be a huge bounty, but it will be ruddy, and merry, and joyous. A Dickensian revolution. 

My daughter cranes her neck to admire the tree. I feel a small hand reaching for mine, tiny fingers grabbing my palm. Her red smile peeks out from behind her brown curls.

“It’s perfect Dad. Merry Christmas.”

---

This will be the last post of 2023 here at Get Real, Man. I’ll be taking the rest of the year off to celebrate with my family, and to rest and recharge. So responses might be slow. I’ve got exciting plans for this community in 2024, which I can’t wait to share with you when we return in January.

For those of you who have been joining us every week, I’m so grateful for your support. You’ve made this year an incredible experience for me. And if you’re not yet a member of the community, I hope you’ll join us. May all of you have a wonderful holiday season, filled with the blessings that truly matter.

With a full heart,

Latham