My mother loved any kind of light and struggled in the the depth of the winter. She lived for sunsets and candlelight. She made a big effort with Christmas especially for the quality of light and for a generosity of spirit. She even loved the red lights of our car as we left after the holiday. Buying a tree in New York City involved a lot of schlepping and energy so my Dad often grumbled. He also really hated putting up the lights, so much so that when it became my job I was surprised by how easy it was.
Books were always a big part of our holiday. Before I was born Mom and Dad made a series of children’s books. My Mom wrote and illustrated and my Dad made the woodcuts, printed, and then bound the books. Those images are part of my December vocabulary.
I have been cleaning house and rearranging things so we can welcome Larkin–who is one and newly walking–safely and happily into our house. These cleaning and holiday efforts have me thinking about my Mom. She loved making the holidays special and she loved having it all seem like it was full of light and sparkle. However she also got stressed and exhausted. She had to read all the books she was giving away before they were wrapped. ( No small task.) She tried valiantly to clean up the house before her four children returned home.
I remember one year sitting down to dinner on Christmas Eve when we were all young adults. The tree was lit and decorated, candles were on the table and and before we dug into our meal she announced there is good news and bad news— we all got quiet and listened carefully. First the good news, “We have croissants for breakfast Christmas morning!” Then the bad news, “I dyed everyone’s underwear pink.”
Spending the evening in candlelight, and maybe by the fire – with no TV – talking, telling stories, letting the lit-up world go by without us, expands the hours, and alters the thoughts and conversations we have.
I have noticed that when all the lights are on, people tend to talk about what they are doing – their outer lives. Sitting round in candlelight or firelight, people start to talk about how they are feeling – their inner lives. They speak subjectively, they argue less, there are longer pauses.
–Jeanette Winterson, Why I Adore the Night, October 29, The Guardian