home for christmas

Sinterklaas Kapoentje,
Leg wat in mijn schoentje,
Leg wat in mijn laarsje,
Dank je Sinterklaasje!

(Saint Nicolas Little Rascal,
Put something in my little shoe,
Put something in my little boot,
Thank you little Saint Nicolas!)

("Sinterklaas Kapoentje" - A Dutch St Nicholas Song)

27 November 2011

Once upon a time, in a tropical island, far far away, I sat staring at a two meter Norwegian pine tree (imported, of course).

It stood elegantly in our air-conditioned living room.

The fragrance was bliss. And along with the crisp processed air, it took me back to a very happy place. The decorations were pretty enough. They were not too fancy or fashionable. Perhaps a little too formulaic and predictable. Pretty. But a little lacking in history. Never mind.

Fairy lights twinkled, Christmas tunes jingled and the air-conditioning hummed.

That part of my Christmas "duty" was done.

I stared at my handiwork for the day, with some degree of self satisfaction.

All in place.

But.

Something is missing.

I sat there alone with my thoughts.

No. It wasn't the snow, or the fireplace.

Nor was it my mother's "Pastel" (Spanish shepherd's pie; I always thought it was Dutch), or her "Huzarensla" (Huzaren Salad, this one is Dutch), or her Indo-Dutch sausage and cinnamon soup (I have no idea what it is called). It was not the fact that none of the children I know these days leaves milk and cookies for Sinterklaas and a handful of fresh grass in their shoe or boot for his white horse, or the fact that they look to the North Pole and not to Spain for the approach of the jolly old man, or that parents told their kids that he will arrive on a sleigh drawn by flying reindeer, and not by the sea, in a large ship, or that every other greeting card makes him look like that other jolly old man in red from the Coca Cola ad, or that no one really knows who St Nicholas was.

It was not the lack of a crowd to have Christmas dinners and lunches with, or the lack of midnight masses, or beautiful choirs, Christmas hams and puddings, bowls of eggnog, or great presents.

No. That wasn’t it.

I could not put my finger on it. So I put it aside, as we do many things in our lives in the name of reason, and carried on with my days.

Slightly uneasy, but convinced of the superiority of my own sensibilities.

Then, one other hot and humid day, as I roamed around in a fancy air-conditioned ginormous shopping centre that by then became like a second home to me, as I could do almost everything there. This time I was running some Christmas errands. On one of the top floors, I came across a large Christmas advertisement poster by Tiffany & Co.

Christmas is so intertwined with the idea of home for most of us.

Tiffany & Co knows that.

There he was, a nice looking, well dressed young man, waiting by a very homely and elegant looking front door, snow flakes falling all around him. He had in his hand behind him, one of those Tiffany blue (yes, they have in fact patented the "Tiffany Blue" colour) boxes tied with the similarly infamous white ribbon, inside which many dreams and hopes can be purchased for a lot less than their true worth. We see only a part of his face, as he looked down at his shoes, with a glow on his face. We know that he has rung the door bell, or knocked. We feel his anticipation, as he listens for any sign of welcome coming from behind the door. His smile embraces what was waiting on the other side. We clasped our chests as our hearts warmed up with his. There was a glimpse of the flickering of fire through the window. The absence of display of what was waiting for him on the other side, made the imagery ever so much clearer in my mind. I could smell the Christmas cake, and the ginger bread. I can see the fireplace, and feel the wood burning.

As my mind continued to fill all the blanks, my own memories of happy Christmases started flooding in with such force that they almost knocked me over.

That bloody advertisement worked like a charm.

No. I did not barge into Tiffany & Co waving my credit card to shop a storm.

The song "I'll be home for Christmas" started playing in my head. I felt like I was about to choke.

Home.

I wanna go home.

I rushed to the nearest taxi stand and headed back to the apartment, forgetting everything else that I was supposed to do that day.

(Notice how I said “the apartment”, and not “home”)

I slowly realized that my last recollection of home was a patchwork of different places, different times, and remained only in my memory.

With that, I also realized that Christmas, as I have always known it, no longer exist.

I've lost Christmas.

So. I decided to press the re-start button.

Last Christmas was a very quiet one. I spent it alone.

This time, not in the aforementioned tropical island far far away. But another far away place at the bottom of the planet. Yet another fragment of my idea of “home”. With not much else left to call home after 10 years of being away, except the memories of my 20s. Filled with broken hearts, but not yet broken dreams.

I bought a cheap, but natural and tasteful looking 30 cm artificial pine tree from Kirkcaldie & Stain’s. An iconic Christmas shop in an iconic store in the CBD. It was our very own Harrod’s. The tree was small enough for me to carry back in a big plastic bag.

As soon as I got home (my mother’s home actually, notice how this time I actually said “home”, even though it is no longer home to me), I wrapped around it a short string of fairy lights, and decorated it with my collection of silver rings. It sat quietly on the kitchen bar top table between late November and January. For many nights during Advent, through Christmas, Boxing Day, and New Year, I switched all lights off, and let the small mount of twinkles sooth me.

I did not go to church, or sing Christmas carols, I did not have presents (I received one, and gave one) or Christmas lunch or dinner (I did go for a quick lunch visit on Boxing Day). I did not dress up for the occasion, or decorate the house, or have a get-together with anybody.

For a brief moment, I was at peace. For a brief moment, there was time to recollect, and to redirect.

A home is made of more than the things we can touch, see and acquire, more than the gathering of people no matter how often or how many, more than the things that are safe and comfortable that it can provide.

A home is a fellowship, of loved ones, of friendship and family.

Christmas is celebrated as a spiritual occasion, a social, or a cultural one.

Whatever the manner of our celebration, it seems to me to be a time of reminder, of what we have been given, what we have been blessed with, and how we can give and bless others in return. It is a time of reconnections and rediscoveries. With and of those without whom we could never be who we are. Without whom, the little sense there seems to be in the world might just disappear all together.

As families and friendships evolve with marriages, deaths, separations, remarriages, migrations, relocations, and everything in between, Christmases, and Homes (with a capital 'H'), evolve with them. And if we do not want to lose Christmas, or Home, we must, take time to rediscover them, to find them in their new incarnations.

Risking the tackiness of a cliche, I will, and must, say this.

As we celebrate Christmas this year, perhaps we should try to remember what lies beyond the husk of sparkles that disguise the beauty of true Christmas.

Beyond the routine and dutiful fulfillments of social demands which often distract us from being able to truly celebrate the season.

Let us take time - enough time - before the 25th, and after, so that we can be allowed the space that is needed to reconnect, and to re-vision, our fellowship with those whose presence in our lives make some days a little less pointless, a little less meaningless.

To remind ourselves of what, and who, truly matters, and ultimately, of what it is all about.

As we enter Advent and approach Christmas day, please allow me to leave you with my most precious Christmas memories.

My Mum and Dad, waking me up in Christmas morning, nudging me in the direction of the fireplace upon which stood a lone red boot stuffed with sweets and chocolates. The man carrying a large pine tree on his shoulder, his wide smile, snow flakes on our faces, as we talked and laughed with a dear friend, and of a picture I took of this momentous occasion (carrying a pine tree on his shoulder). Warm pastels, and sausage cinnamon soup, and huzarensla (none of which is a traditional Christmas meal). Singing "Sinterklaas Kapoentje" with my mother. My father driving on long Christmas road trips, his fedora hat, cigarettes, aviators and coffee thermos. The smell of pine trees, ginger bread, cinnamon, morning snow and winter sun. Pohutukawa trees. Smiles, and giggles, and laughter.

And of a certain magic that seems to come only once every year, but indelibly colours all of our remaining years.

Christmas is many things, to many people. It might be nothing, to some.

Whatever it is to you, what better way to spend a day, or more, than to love, and to laugh, to be reminded of the reasons for them, and to know with greater certainty, more than any other day of the year, how everything that is good, is so very real and possible.

Merry Christmas.

(Editorial Note: This has been edited on 16 November 2024, thirteen years later. Much have changed since. I’ll catch you up next time).