Oh, Christmas Tree

There is as much heartbreak in change as there is pride. This year, for most of us, has brought about more change than I could have prepared for and it's a brand of change where you want to cry and fight it, which you certainly can do and I have done, but it won’t undo the personal evolution you’re being thrust into.

I have a Christmas tree in my cozy New York apartment, it’s the first time I’ve ever had a tree in the city. I’ve spent the last two Christmases abroad somewhere or wrapping myself in Manhattan’s strings of lights tightly enough that I didn’t have to confront what this season means for me.

I didn’t realize how much I was escaping by fleeing to Australia for the winter last year. I was escaping more than just the cold-  I was escaping loneliness, the discomfort that comes with change and the ups and downs of holiday season nostalgia. Australia helped me avoid gaining twenty pounds from traditional Thanksgiving and Christmas binge-eating, but it also distracted me from overthinking the future, the trouble of wanting togetherness and my usual obsession of buying perfectly thoughtful gifts.

During my inaugural winter in Manhattan, I used to wake up early and run to Rockefeller center during the two hour window when the city truly feels like it's asleep. I’d have our famous tree and window displays to myself, standing in Rockefeller plaza and smiling through clenched teeth, childlike- like I was sticking my face inside of a snow globe. I want that joy again, I need that holiday joy now more than any other winter, because while there’s still some Big Apple magic, this year and this season is an instruction manual for slowing down. Like shaking up a snow globe- you can’t help but watch the glitter and hypnotize yourself with a slowness. There’s nowhere to flee to this year so that means making mulled wine, cutting up paper snowflakes and singing along to Joni Mitchell’s “River” until the melancholy floods me and I inevitably turn on Elf instead. 

I didn’t put much thought into getting a tree, I sorta just did it, like it was the thing to do immediately after Thanksgiving, or else I’d forget which month we’re in. Feeling very mighty, carrying my four-foot tree down Bedford Avenue, I was slapped by the sad image of a tiny gal walking proudly down the street- one of those somewhat-annoying scenes with a strong female lead- Allison Brie could play me here. There was the twinkle of “I can do it myself!” in my eye and the wallowing of “but I’ll do it alone” in the rest of my face.

“I’ve never been here before”- that was the thought I felt once I set the tree down in the corner of my apartment and took a step back to make sure it was standing up straight.

The tree we had growing up was always mismatched but I loved it. I’d beg my dad to go get a giant tree but we somehow always ended up with a five-footer with a few scraggly branches who couldn’t decide which way they wanted to grow. I bought my dream tree during my first year of marriage- finally, a gorgeous seven foot tall tree. I wanted it to be perfect, spending a small fortune on perfectly coordinated ornaments I can’t even picture anymore. That Christmas tree ordeal was so performative- my name is Marina and I’ll be reading for the role of perfect housewife. The rest of my newlywed home looked like a Crate and Barrel catalogue, the tree had to follow suit: the perfect tree, the perfect ornaments to match the stockings, one for the cat and dog, family heirlooms on the mantle, everything in its right place for the obligatory, overly-coordinated “1st Christmas as a married couple” photo.

One could easily predict that fiasco didn’t turn out how it looked in my head. I don’t know how moms do it- the magic Christmas show they put on every year like it’s nothing, waking up at God knows what hour to move the dumb shelf elf. Needless to say, that was the last year I killed off a piece of my soul, ruining one more thing with my obsessive perfectionism. Every year to follow, I left it up to my in-laws to put on the show, since we’d end up in the midwest for the holidays anyway.

Back to today- Getting my cute, apartment-sized tree this year feels like an ode to 2020 celebrations. If there was a slogan for it, it would be something like: 2020, It’ll do. 

Like everything I’ve managed to whip up from scratch for myself in this chapter, I can now add forced-Christmas-cheer to that list. The puppy has chewed most of the branches from the bottom, I accidentally bought green lights instead of bright white, there’s about ten ornaments, but only around the top and the part you see right when you walk through the door. 

You can create things from scratch and they can be an iteration instead of striving for perfection with your V1. You can get a tree and get new ornaments to make a new thing. Oh, but what if they break!? Then you’ll get more. You’ll collect ornaments, they’ll be all mis-matched and maybe one day you’ll be one of those people that has two trees- a pretty one and the one with paper star cutouts from kiddos. I hope you’re brave enough to build your life your way and be okay with it evolving from the janky V1 orphan Christmas Tree. 

I can’t replicate New York’s holiday season this year but there will be new traditions and new feelings to bottle. Make what you can of this season, whatever that looks like for you. Gain the holiday weight guilt-free, feel the sad cold, squeeze your chosen family when you can’t hug your actual family. Try to give yourself a little extra grace and celebrate these next few colder months heart-first.