“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.
The Wired Researcher 