And when next November rolls around, and you feel that first shiver of anticipation, you will lie again. Willingly. Enthusiastically. Because the human heart, it turns out, needs tinsel as much as it needs bread.
December 26th (or the day after your main celebration) arrives with the particular flatness of a popped balloon. The tinsel looks suddenly sad. The leftover ham haunts the fridge. There is a credit card bill waiting in your inbox. festive season
In a world that grows more digital and distant by the minute, the festive season remains stubbornly physical. You cannot DM a hug. You cannot Zoom the smell of a pine tree. You cannot algorithmic your way into a spontaneous kitchen dance party while washing champagne glasses at midnight. Let us speak of the table. Whether it is a six-foot mahogany antique or a wobbling IKEA leaf with a stain on the corner, the festive table is the true altar of the season. And when next November rolls around, and you
The festive season is a trick we play on time. For a few brief weeks, we pretend that generosity is the default, that family is always functional, and that tomorrow will be better than yesterday. It is a lie, of course. A beautiful, necessary, life-affirming lie. Because the human heart, it turns out, needs
But perhaps that is the point. The festive season is not about pretending the darkness isn’t there. It is about lighting a candle in the middle of it. We cling to rituals because they give us a script when we have no words. The lighting of the menorah. The burning of the Yule log. The frantic, last-minute wrapping of a gift for a neighbour you barely know.
It is the festive season. And it arrives not with a bang, but with a low, humming electricity.