33. Post-Epiphany epiphany

It’s long after Epiphany. The packed-up Christmas box is still sitting by the fireplace, waiting to go to its home in the garage, a reminder that another holiday season has come and gone. The poinsettia has wilted, and it’s time I took down the holiday cards sent by far-flung friends from the door jamb. It was our first holiday season in our new house, and despite having fun decorating the mantel and finding new places to put wreaths, there was a kind of emptiness without all the parties and gatherings we normally have this time of year. We still have unopened boxes waiting for bookshelves to be built in our front room, artwork and frames I’m not sure yet where to hang, and a general sense that we haven’t yet really moved in. I should have just had a party anyway, I know, but I’m not sure my heart would have been in it. 

I rushed to get gifts to fill up the empty space—both physical and emotional—under the tree. In the midst of wrapping and grocery shopping and cleaning the house I received a message from a friend with a photo of herself with another mutual friend, neither of which I’ve seen in years. The last time I saw a photo of them together, it was one I had taken of the two of them when we all three went on vacation together 28 years ago; the photo’s backdrop was her grandparents’ remote cabin in northern Ontario. This photo’s backdrop was New York City, with a caption, “Thought you might appreciate this! Happy Holidays!” When I commented that it looked fun, she replied, “yes, just got in today. Here until Sunday. Experiences, not presents.”

Experiences, not presents. 

I had to sit with that for a while. It reminded me of a similar expression I’d heard, “presence, not presents,” reminding us to be present and enrich ourselves from whom and what is in the moment, rather than searching for enrichment in material form. Looking around at the pairs of socks, paraphernalia for tea-making, books (that we could have just as well borrowed from the library), ribbons, paper, scotch tape, and broken-down cardboard boxes from Amazon, I felt deflated. For years my husband and I have talked about skipping the gifts and taking a family trip over the holidays, but I had always balked. I wanted to be home. I wanted the Christmas tree, and gifts under the tree. I wanted my son to believe in the magic. I wanted the special food and all the trimmings of a “perfect” holiday. But when the gift wrapping had been cleared away and the Beef Wellington had been digested, what was I left with? My memories of Christmases past have blurred into each other, and the few distinct memories I have are mostly of the two Christmases we spent abroad.

Now, here, suddenly stripped of the familiarities of my hometown and the intense social schedule we used to have around the holidays, I had to face some harsh realities:  my son is no longer believing in “the magic.” Although things are improving, we are still maneuvering the rocky path of depression. He is also getting older and soon leaving us for adulthood. His days at home are numbered. He appreciates social connections with his friends more than gifts he doesn’t really need. He doesn’t even like my Beef Wellington. Maybe I had been missing the boat all along by trying to make the perfect holiday experience with trees and lights and food and gifts. Maybe we should have instead taken a cruise together, volunteered somewhere, gone to see a show in Chicago or New York, or gone hiking in the rainforest somewhere, taking advantage of some of the last time we would all be together as a family. 

Experiences, not presents.

The new decade is born, full of promise. Today I dusted off my planning cap for 2020; time to put 2019 in storage. We’re gearing up for spring break, a visit from the French family this summer, a trip to the east coast before school begins in the fall. My birthday is coming up soon, too. And what will I ask for? Not presents, not comestibles, not flowers, but an adventure. An experience, spent with the people I love most.