Tag Archives: Christmas

The Journey Is the Gift

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“It is good to have an end to journey toward; but it is the journey that matters, in the end.”
—Ursula K. Le Guin (1929–2018). American novelist and essayist whose work consistently emphasizes process, patience, and the moral meaning of how lives are lived.

Hopefully, talking about December holidays isn’t limited to December alone, because here it is January—and I’m still talking.

“You and Gary must have had MAHvelous celebrations,” someone, somewhere out there, exclaimed.

Actually, we did. We started early, weaving joy into as long a string as possible. And get this—it’s the week after Epiphany, and we’re not finished.

For real. The trees are still up, their lights burning every evening. Lighted garlands trace the banister and the fireplace mantels in both the living room and the kitchen. Outdoors, lighted deer still prance on the deck, a Snoopy tree shimmers in the lower yard, and shrubs outside the kitchen bid a bright welcome.

Is that wonderful or what? Here we are, still enjoying our holiday decorations—largely Gary’s labor of love—which he began the day after Thanksgiving and created day by day thereafter, with no real rush to get anything or everything done.

Don’t worry. Soon enough we’ll box everything up and unplug the trees. We’ll pack it all away. But we won’t be finished. I’ll still be talking about something simple I learned this holiday.

Come to think of it, that’s exactly what I’m doing right now. I want to tell you why this might have been my best Christmas celebration ever.

I think I know.

Christmases past always felt like a frenzied process leading up to a single day. December 25 arrived. Poof. Done. Over.

Time and time again, I found myself humming “Is That All There Is” made famous by Peggy Lee.

The song opens with a childhood fire—flames consuming a house, a father carrying his daughter to safety, the world burning down while she stands shivering in her pajamas. And when it’s all over, the child asks herself:

“Is that all there is to a fire?“

Later comes the circus—spectacle, color, astonishment—followed by a curious sense of absence. Something missing, though nothing is obviously wrong.

“Is that all there is to a circus?“

Then love. Long walks. Gazing into one another’s eyes. And then loss. The beloved leaves. The heart breaks. But still, life goes on.

Even death, waiting at the end, offers no final revelation—only the same unanswered question.

Again and again, the song circles moments that promise transcendence but refuse to deliver a final explanation.

It’s as if the great events of a life—fire, wonder, love, even death—never quite measure up to the meaning we expect them to deliver.

This year, for the first time I can remember, I didn’t find myself humming that song.

I didn’t hear myself asking that question at all.

This year, I didn’t build toward a payoff.

This year, I didn’t measure the season by a single day.

This year, I realized that Christmas lives in the spirit we practice all year long, not in the triumph of a single day.

This year, I learned to take my cue from a slower rhythm—one built day by day, without hurry.

This year, I found pleasure in the making, not the finishing.

This year, the question never came.

Much of that rhythm was Gary’s, and I was wise enough to follow it and learn from it.

It applies to education—
not just the diploma, but the nights spent puzzling, reading, failing, beginning again.

It applies to work—
not just the promotion or the retirement toast, but the showing up, the learning, the imperfect days that add up to a life.

It applies to friendships—
not just the anniversaries and milestones, but the long conversations, the forgiveness, the staying.

It applies to love—
not just the moment we fall, but the daily choosing, the adjusting, the patience, the tenderness that deepens over time.

It applies to vacations—
not just the photograph-worthy view, but the planning, the anticipation, the getting lost, the laughing along the way.

It applies to accomplishments—
books written one page at a time, great rides pedaled one indoor revolution at a time,
gardens grown one season at a time.

It applies, I think, to almost everything that matters.

What I was given this Christmas was not a better ending, but a better way of moving through things. A way that lets the journey matter. A way that frees us from asking too much of a single moment, and invites us to live more fully in all the moments that lead up to it.

And so the lights will come down. The boxes will go back into their places. January will move on, as it always does.

But I’ll carry this with me: meaning doesn’t arrive—it accumulates. With that gift, I found a better way to live inside my days.

Finding Light and Hope Beyond the Hustle

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“Blessed is the season which engages the whole world in a conspiracy of love.”

–Hamilton Wright Mabie (1846–1916; American essayist and editor known for his inspirational writing on literature, culture, and the transformative power of kindness.)

December is a month brimming with light, meaning, and connection. Across cultures, we celebrate hope and renewal: the candles of Hanukkah commemorating resilience; Christmas, reflecting faith and generosity; and the Winter Solstice marking the return of light. Each tradition reminds us that even in darkness, there is light to be found.

Although I embrace the diversity and the richness of those cultural and religious celebrations–and others–I am most familiar with the traditions surrounding Christmas, a holiday that 90% of Americans will celebrate regardless of their beliefs. That statistic strikes me as ironic since I’ve been hearing a rather noncelebratory chorus wafting through the air to a not-so-happy but more-and-more popular tune:

“I’ll be glad when Christmas is over.”

While I can relate, I find those words strange—and here’s why.

Growing up in the coalfields of Southern West Virginia, everyone in my home and throughout our coal camp longed for Christmas to arrive. The celebrations were never labored. Instead, they were simple, mirroring our modest means since my dad was a coal miner. I can still see our windows decorated with wreaths made of scarlet-red celluloid with overlapping holly leaves, their edges curling delicately, with a deep green bow on top. Their translucent sheen captivated me year after year.

Our Christmas tree was always a cedar. My mother would have no other kind, probably because she knew that it was the one kind that my dad could always manage to find, hatchet down, and tote home for her to decorate. How well I recall the metal bird ornaments, brightly painted and glittering with long, glowing spun-glass tails that shimmered like ethereal feathers. Even more vivid in my memory are the bubble lights–especially the bird-shaped ones with vibrant, detailed feathers– that came alive with gentle bubbles when warmed, adding a magical flicker to the tree.

When evening came, I was mesmerized by the glow-in-the-dark icicles, translucent plastic mimicking dripping ice. They absorbed light during the day and emitted a soft, magical bluish glow in the dark, adding an ethereal wintery charm. The tree topper was a star with sharp, radiant points made of the same plastic that emitted a soft, magical glow at night. More than once, one or more icicles within my reach bedded me down in fantasies.

Those decorations seemed to hold more than just a festive glow—they captured the hope and light that Christmas brought to our coal camp. Even in the darkest days of winter, the light of our cedar tree radiated a promise of something brighter and better.

The rest of our celebration took place on Christmas day. A gift for each child, along with a brown paper bag containing an orange, a few English walnuts and Brazil nuts (both in the shell), some chocolate drops, a coconut bonbon or two, and some hard Christmas candy. Dinner was traditional with turkey and all the fixings. A more modest and less stressful day of celebration cannot be imagined.

However, as I grew older and my family’s finances improved, I noticed that the more we had, the more complicated Christmas seemed to become. Somehow, the simplicity and the authenticity of those earlier days got swept away in the whirlwind of excess. It became fraught with expectations around gift-giving, family gatherings, and hosting. Those pressures made the holiday feel more like an obligation than a celebration.

I’m not suggesting that we return to the “good old days,” but I am offering a gentle reminder. Let’s not lose sight of the light, hope, and connection that our December holidays are meant to bring.

Whether we celebrate Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, or the Winter Solstice, December holds a truth that transcends any one tradition. At its heart, this season is not about perfection or excess—it’s about finding light in the darkness, connection in a fragmented world, and hope for the days ahead.

Maybe what we need most in December is not more doing, but more being. The rush to create the perfect holiday often drowns out the simple joys that make this season special. Perhaps it’s in the quiet moments—the glow of a candle, the laughter of loved ones, or even the stillness of a winter night—that we can rediscover what these traditions are truly about.

Whether it’s the menorah’s light that burned for eight miraculous days, the warmth of a cedar tree glowing with bubble lights, or the turning of the solstice that promises brighter days, these celebrations remind us that even in the darkest times, there is always light to be found. They urge us to pause, to reflect, and to carry that light forward.

In a world that often feels too fast, too busy, and too disconnected, December offers us a chance to recalibrate. It’s an invitation to let go of the stress, to step back from the hustle, and to reclaim the simple joys that make life meaningful. That’s the real gift of this season—not the presents we give or receive, but the presence we bring to one another.

This December, let’s carry forward the light—whether from a candle, a cedar tree, or the stars themselves. Let’s pause, step away from the hustle, and embrace the hope that lights our way.