January 5, 2018
A Modern Christmas Casualty
I really have no idea for how many years I wrote an annual Christmas letter full of news of the kids, our latest escapades and injuries, career moves and camping holidays. Maybe twenty? Maybe more. After time ran out this year for a Christmas letter I tried to sit down and write a New Years version, and nothing happened. I came out of the study where I keep our laptop on a nice desk with all the things around I need to pull off similar missives, flopped down by my husband on the couch and said, "I'm not feeling it this year."
I wonder if my annual Christmas letter writer's block comes from having a family growing up, moving out and moving on. I wonder if it comes from my active connectivity over social media sites such as Facebook and Instagram. Nearly everyone out there knows what we've been up to, how our son graduated from university in the spring, how we bought a condo and moved house for the second time in a year, how our youngest will play Lumiere in this year's production of Beauty and the Beast, that I got a new job as a baker for a lovely little artisan bakery. Do they know our older daughter returned to school full time to finish her degree? I don't know, but it feels like that might be the only unknown thing I would write about in a letter. That must be it - everything I would write about would feel like old news, trite, like gilding a lily as they say. Perhaps, thanks to technology, we may have evolved beyond the Christmas letter. Evolving is fine. Life isn't meant to stay one way forever and I suppose forcing myself to produce the same sort of greetings year after year simply feels pointless now. Now that this year is a washout, I do look forward to sending some sort of personal greetings next year, but in what form?
We had a massive snow storm here after Christmas. One of the mail carriers apparently slipped and fell on the ice, breaking her leg. Perhaps the Post Office cancelled home delivery after that because we saw no mail for days. The weather improved and we received mail yesterday. In our box along with the VISA bill and a notice from our daughter's school was a Christmas card from a friend. She had written a few personal lines and signed off with love and best wishes. Her card joined the few others on the mantle. Gone are the days when a long clothesline-type string was hung with dozens of cards from friends near and far. We haven't lost the friends and family who used to send them - we have stopped sending as many cards as we used to as well. Postage is pricey and emailing and Facebook are 'free'. As Christmas approached I added my greetings, accompanied by a photo of our Christmas tree, to the chorus of similar posts online. While digital Christmas cards are lovely, you can't cut them up into recycled gift tags the next year. Honestly, I treasure the Christmas cards I receive no matter how they are sent, but the paper ones seem extra special nowadays.
I know how busy everyone is. I am busy, too. The rush up to Christmas seems jammed with activity, at work and at home. When I was a stay-at-home mom I found time to do everything I wanted to do for the holiday, and I loved it. Now, I seem to have less energy to spare beyond the required baking and cooking and parcels for our moms. Our younger son and older daughter came home for Christmas. They asked what they could help with and I gave them a few jobs. Daughter make Gingerbread cookie dough. Son wrapped gifts and did dishes. The to-do list which would have taken me all day was conquered by noon. Aha! I thought. I forgot what it was like to have help. With my husband working out of town much of the week and our youngest spending most of December dividing her time between school work and rehearsals, I am on my own with most of the tasks. Something had to give, and this year it was the Christmas letter. Perhaps I will write one next year. Somehow I doubt it. I will, however, try to send paper Christmas cards. We should, after all, give what we like to receive.
Wishing everyone a happy, prosperous, peaceful New Year,