Making the Holidays Your Own

So I do the season how it feels good for me to do the season. My Christmas trees go up before my daughter can snatch the last Halloween decoration down for its own safety.

That’s right. Every year my trees go up the last of October or the first of November and come down when I feel like I can let the goodness of the holiday season go, typically somewhere around the Spring Equinox. (That’s in June, right?)

There are four trees in my living room: Goldie, who is lush and green with lustrous golden tips; Firefly, who stands elegantly white in a gold and silver mosaic glass collar near the fireplace; and Art and Laurel, who are each 10 feet tall and white mid-century magic. (More about them later.)

There’s Silver Diva, standing like…well…a diva divine in my kitchen; Silver Belle, who is pure white, dressed in chic silver ornaments and crowned with a white velvet dove in the main bedroom; and Gold Rush standing in her gilded glory in the guest room.

There are five more green trees in the family room, plus a replica of Charlie Brown’s sad little miracle tree. And there’s a unicorn tree in my daughter’s room. Unicorn wears a cap of gay ribbons and has ALL the things.

And each tree tells a family story or projects a wish for peace, reflection, happiness, calm or fun.

Why so many? Because why not??? They bring us joy. What’s wrong with six-, seven-, eight- and ten-foot towers of glowing happiness? Don’t you need you some extra joy? Why not make as much joy as we need? Especially these days.

Now. Holiday purists have cast me plenty of side-eye, but I will not be shamed. I love the purity of Christmas tree light and how it transforms the physical space of our house into something almost celestial.

I love how that warm, sparkling light leaves us feeling closer, safer from the outside world and even more together as a family. I love how it amplifies our joy and helps us to believe in good things—whether it’s the magic of Santa, the power of human compassion, connection and goodness or the miracle of faith.

I know some folks be feeling like, “But, Mel! If you put the trees before the pumpkins, doesn’t that mess up Thanksgiving??”

Let me think on that. NOPE.

We think of that day as our Day of Gratitude where we all relax. (No 12 hours of pressure-and-frustration-filled turkey preparation for me!) We make whatever we want and eat it when we want, as long as it feels like a feast to us. And in the soft, enchanting haze of approximately 4,979 twinkling lights, the edges of the world seem softer, our blessings richer, our purpose as a family clearer, our love and connection deeper. How beautiful is that?

Remember, fam. Light will always shine out the darkness.

I put up a forest of trees because I want my family to have something beautiful and meaningful to feel, see and experience everywhere their eyes can look. So I create a holiday space that will enchant them, affirm them and encircle them with my love. Okay, with my trees. But that’s the same thing, right? (I see you out there fist-pumping and nodding like, “Yeah, Girl!”)

Now our trees are my family’s favourite tradition. Oh, they fussed at first. “Why so early??” “We’re gonna look weird to our neighbours.” “We don’t even have room for another tree.” And other words that strangely didn’t have any meaning to my ears.

But over time the fussing stopped. Over time these same family members started looking forward to our holiday season with great anticipation, including protesting one year when I briefly thought about just putting up one tree.

We love all our trees. But not like we love Art and Laurel, our ten-foot trees that we named after my partner’s parents, my daughter’s grandparents and two of my best friends in this life.

Art and Laurel loved each other so openly, sweetly and deeply that our biggest gift was just being with them, being in their glow. They laughed freely, dropped kisses on one another spontaneously and put their arms around one another so easily and often we knew they’d each only been made for the other.

They both died in 2015. There was immeasurable grief. After we lost them, I found two towering trees, almost tall enough to touch our ceiling. After we turned on their lights, we knew we had to name them Laurel and Art.

Each year we decorate them with simple, elegant ornaments. We push them close and wrap them together at the bottom with a single ribbon, as if they’re embracing each other. In the twinkling lights we feel peace, joy and comfort from the two towers of light in our lives. We feel embraced by them and one another. And we want that feeling to last as long as it can.