Christmas
A lot has changed about Christmas since I was a kid. Yesterday, I would have gone to bed early, eager to wear my new clothes this morning. That innocent feeling is truly unmatched!
Today, it’s harder to channel that excitement. I’m at home, sure, and there’s rice and chicken. I have new clothes to try on, but they don’t hold the same appeal.
I’ve been asking myself: where do I find the joy? Not the unbridled joy of childhood Christmases—no—but a more realistic joy, perhaps inspired by that, but which acknowledges my anxieties about the new year while remaining rooted in gratefulness.
Christmas is not the same anymore. It is what it is now; the vestiges of a tradition inevitably changed by the realities of our lives.
I’ve sent holiday greetings to a dozen people today, and not one of them is in the same place. Only a few are with family or friends. From Anambra to Boston, the people I’m celebrating with are scattered across the world.
I’ve tried to find joy in gratefulness: home, life, love, good health and a sound mind. But despite this acknowledgement, I still want more out of the day.
And so I started writing this essay: partly to break my hiatus, but also to find joy in doing something I’ll always love: publishing.
My brother organized a family photoshoot yesterday, and then we had lunch. My sister couldn’t make it, but his wife did.
A bunch of familiar strangers will visit the house today, some compelled by tradition, others because they have no better plans. Tomorrow we will unbox the packages under the tree, and then go out to see a play.
This Christmas. Christmas. An ever-changing tradition that meets me wherever I am. A privilege that I may not be able to truly appreciate, but one that exists nonetheless.
They say the best way to help yourself through something is to help someone else. So if you’re reading this today, I wish you great joy. The kind that comes from newness and connection and community, however far dispersed the threads are.
Merry Christmas. And a happy new year in advance!