'Tis the Season.

The explanations come naturally, and for that, I'm grateful. I wondered, worried about how I would explain Christmas to the Impling, and yet, I find that the simplest explanations are the easiest, and the most honest. I don't tell her more than she can absorb.

I've started exploring potential traditions with the resurrection of particular things I enjoyed as a child...colored lights, advent calenders, the scent of baked apples, hot chocolate, and spiced cakes.

With each item comes a simple definition of what it is, and as she gets more language, the explanations will grow.

Right now, things go something like this:

The Impling stares with wide eyes at lights on a tree.

“That's a Christmas tree, sweetie. People put up pretty lights in the winter to cheer up. See how dark it is? People miss the sun, so this month people do lots of different things to cheer themselves up. And one thing they do is put up lots of lights!”

Light as hope, as life. It is one of the oldest universal symbols we have. Why not celebrate?

So we made cookies today, an impromptu affair that provided entertainment for my Impling, and our play date friends. The Impling made a tentative peace with the electric mixer, which up until today held a primal terror for her. We pressed out hearts and trees and wreaths, and put dollops of black raspberry jam in the middles. We almost burnt our first batch, but calmly went on to the second. I poured tea, and we sat in comfortable companionship, the kind of low key space that let us relax and dump our tea bags in the flour covered measuring cup that lay complacently in a pile of flour and sugar. I brought out the cello (my friend is an amateur violinist from Philly which grants us the ability to make musical in- jokes...a rare treat), and we had a dance party to “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star” and all it's variations.

Yesterday was another day of impromptu visits, the kind of open door “Hi! Come on in! We're making snowflakes! Want some tea?” time that doesn't happen enough. Toddlers running around, chatting with friends, losing track of time in our relaxation. No present exchanges, no obligations, just sitting around, doing lazy things.

We don't have a tree this year, but we have an advent calender, and everyday the Impling opens a window and stares at the picture that appears. I try to remember a time when I did not know what a snowman was, or a Christmas tree, or Santa Claus. She loves the windows, more for the excitement of a new word than anything else, and tries to wrap her little tongue around “Sanna Kaws” and “Krimmas trwee” with such glee.

The stories and symbols of Christmas, the evergreen wreaths, the holly, the ivy, the trees and lights and yule logs and carols, are all now a happy jumble of ancient Roman holidays, ancient Celtic ritual, etc etc. etc.

To add a story of birth in the cold of winter is not only appropriate, but inevitable. It's hard to create a better, or more accessible tale...a young pregnant teenager, thrust into an early adulthood, rising to her fate and making do with what she had. We all know now what birth is really like, so for mothers, the image is automatically a powerful one.

What would this scene look like today? When I was still in school, I developed a 20^th century nativity. In my tableau, Mary was a 14 year old runaway, Joseph a homeless veteran, trying to break into the carpenters union, and the stable a sewer duct. Today, I would probably change the stable to a shelter. The three wise “men” were once Mark Twain, Maya Angelou, and Gore Vidal. Today, I'd still have Mark and Maya, But Natalie Angier may take over for Gore. Charles Kuralt would be one of the shepherds.

Oh, and Jesus...she would be a black baby. Just so there's no confusion about it.

But in the here and now, all these stories are just too complicated. My Uncle asked me at Thanksgiving if the Impling knew about Santa Claus. I laughed and said we were taking it one holiday at a time. But I heard the unspoken question behind the innocuous one...are you bringing up your child as a Christian? I heard this only because, for my uncle, having a God to be angry at and rage against is paramount. Because my aunt has cervical cancer. He needs to ask why. He needs to rage.

But he was wonderful with the Impling, playing with the old 1970's Fisher Price castle we all played with when we were young. Those moments were glorious...pure enjoyment of life and creativity and curiosity. There was no need for explanations, or blame, or expectations. There was just the little iconic wooden figures of a knight, a queen, and a woodman with the little Errol Flynn mustache. A pink dragon peeking from behind the stairs. A golden laugh, and a tired but joyful smile. At that moment, the Impling showed her God to my uncle, who felt his own in a way he hadn't in a long while.

These are the gifts we make for ourselves. These unconscious moments of clarity, of being completely in the moment, celebrating our wondrous lives. Celebrating the light, not by itself, but surrounded by darkness.

Peace, all.