Oh Christmas tree

We're not really big on tradition in my family. As my girls were growing up, I thought it was better to teach them to follow a path of creativity and ingenuity as opposed to doing things the way they'd always been done. One etched-in-stone tradition however, has been the decorating of the Christmas tree.

Every year, I have given each daughter an ornament to commemorate an event or interest that has occurred during the past 12 months. Over the years, starting with their "Baby's First Christmas" they've amassed a collection of ornaments celebrating the moments of their lives--the school sports, the hobbies in which they've dabbled, their passions, the life passages they've navigated. These ornaments are always presented with much laughter and joy on tree-decorating day, and after the new additions are placed on the tree, we proceed to unwrap all of their predecessors, thoughtfully telling the story of the history of each ornament as it, too is given a place of honor amid the branches. I have several pieces that have been passed down to me by my mother and these are always the nearest and dearest to my own heart, as they recall the Christmases of my childhood spent in our knotty-pined basement rec room complete with a fresh Christmas tree laden with a ton of tinsel and those humongous primary-colored tree lights that one simply doesn’t see anymore. (Do they still make them--along with the shiny crescent-shaped cardboard mirrors that were inserted behind them to further intensify the garish illumination?)

Admittedly, some of the traditions have grown downright obnoxious over the years. My girls, who are in their 20s never fail to use this time to extol the beauty of the ornaments they made me in the pre- and elementary-school years. There is the wax-paper Christmas tree handmade by Bethany and the lid to the orange juice can with the star carefully punched out by Alyssa. There are some jumbled tangles made of yarn that I find unrecognizable, yet the girls insist that I display them in a prominent position year after year. There is the six-ball set that has all the verses to The Night Before Christmas etched on them. Alyssa insists on reading them aloud--in order--much to the chagrin of her more pragmatic sister who every year whines, "Moooooommmmmm, can't you just make her shut up and put them on the tree?" (I can't.)

Since I've switched to an artificial tree (sold out, Alyssa would say), this annual ritual has taken place on the Friday after Thanksgiving. Some families shop; we shun that process entirely and converge upon my living room, scarf down a sandwich of turkey leftovers and then begin dragging box after box of Christmas décor up from the basement. This process has gotten less arduous with each passing year, especially since I've given many of my holiday decorations to the girls for display in their homes. But the tree has always been sacrosanct.

This past Friday-after-Thanksgiving we gathered together for the usual routine and actually got the tree up in record time. It's taken us 20 years to perfect the technique, but we have it down to a science. I can even predict the exact moment when the good-natured bantering will begin. Although Alyssa has been away at college for four years, this is the first year her ornaments will adorn her own tree in her first "real" apartment. We carefully set aside the swimmer, the snowwoman proclaiming "born to shop," and the goofy frog from her brief amphibious phase. The loss of the 20-plus ornaments barely made a dent in the 10-foot tree, for collecting ornaments has been a hobby of mine for years. Up went the treasured mementos of vacations, houses we've lived in, family memories and friends we don't get to see enough. They were all there-- the counted-cross stitch ornaments that my sister made for me on my first married Christmas, the teapot commemorating my love for the beverage, the personalized baby booties crocheted by my mother to mark the birth of each of her granddaughters, the beaded candy canes I made myself, the gold-plated aspen leaf purchased for my first Christmas in Colorado. All of them telling a story; the tapestry of my life.

I have another Christmastime tradition that is mine alone. After the girls leave, I sit down to admire our handiwork and reflect on each ornament--remembering fondly the events that triggered them, the people who gave them to me or the people I was with when I purchased them. Each year, I reminisce about the new people in my life--the ones whom I'd not yet met when I gazed upon my tree last year. Sometimes I've bid a silent farewell to people who are no longer part of my world for one reason or another. Every year, I think about how far I've come and wonder what new adventures will come my way between now and the next Christmas.

This year, when I sat down for my annual private ritual, I expected to be saddened by the loss of Alyssa's ornaments from the tree, yet I wasn't. She has her own grown-up life now, as does her sister, and I enjoy being mother to adult daughters. My hands-on job with them is done and I am at peace with my two exquisite creations. All is as it should be. I stared at my beautiful tree and looked over each ornament. And felt…pleasantly unattached. With an absolute certainty that sprang from deep within the core of me, I was instantly convinced that this is my last year for such a tree. It's time. My beautiful tree represents my past--not my present or my future. And while I treasure my past, I no longer need an annual testimony to it, nor do I need physical objects to treasure the memory of the blessings I've received. My past is a part of who I am and as the bible says about Mary, these are things that I "treasure in my heart."

When I explained my thoughts to Jeremy later that evening, he totally understood. (Then again, he's Jewish and refers to our tree as a Hanukah bush.). "It's not who you are anymore. You're done," he empathized and I agreed. With total peace and clarity, I emailed the girls and set up a date after Christmas for them to come over and select the ornaments they each want for their family trees. The rest I will donate, confident that they will bring joy to whomever hangs them on their tree in the future. I am thrilled with my decision. Some changes in life come with intense struggle and pain. This one came easily and without resistance, and I welcome it with open arms. Perhaps I will put up a smaller tree next year, maybe decorate it with a theme--Victorian to match my house, or maybe simply elegant silver balls and white lights--there won't be a yarn ornament in sight.

Either way, the possibilities are endless, and that's what life is supposed to be all about.