The Cultivation of Christmas Trees
There are several attitudes towards Christmas,
Some of which we may disregard:
The social, the torpid, the patently commercial,
The rowdy (the pubs open till midnight),
And the childish-which is not that of the child
For whom the candle is a star, and the gilded angel
Spreading its wings at the summit of the tree
Is not only a decoration, but an angel,
The child wonders at the Christmas Tree:
Let him continue in the spirit of wonder
At the Feast as an event not accepted as a pretext;
So that the glittering rapture, the amazement
Of the first-remembered Christmas Tree,
So that the surprises, delight in the new possessions
(Each one with its particular and exciting smell),
The expectation of the goose or turkey
And the expected awe on its appearance,
So that the reverence and the gaiety
May not be forgotten in the later experience,
In the bored habituation, the fatigue, the tedium,
The awareness of death, the consciousness of failure,
Or in the piety of the convert
Which may be tainted with self-conceit
Displeasing to God and disrespectful to the children
(And here I remember with gratitude
St. Lucy, her carol, and her crown of fire):
So that before the end, the eightieth Christmas
(By "eightieth" meaning whichever is the last)
The accumulated memories of annual emotion
May be concentrated into great joy. T.S. Eliot - 1954
While this entire poem holds a special place in my heart, reminding us of what is and what is not important about Christmas, I have a favorite stanza…
Let him continue in the spirit of wonder At the Feast as an event not accepted as a pretext; So that the glittering rapture, the amazement Of the first-remembered Christmas Tree, So that the surprises, delight in the new possessions (Each one with its peculiar and exciting smell),
No matter how many years pass or how old I am, Christmas morning never loses its wonder for me. A hot cup of tea in hand, my prayers, journals and a book or two by my side, the smell of wrapping paper and the silence I can only be describe as divine. A silence only matched by the silence one feels when watching an infant sleep. Soft, gentle breath and delicate, fluttering lashes the only movement in the room.
May the wonder of Christmas continue to live in your hearts-until the “eightieth” or the last.
Merry Christmas,
Evie