The festive season magnifies everything. If you are happy, you become euphoric. If you are lonely, you become desolate. If you are grieving, the carols cut like glass.
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. 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. The festive season magnifies everything
But during the festive season, we willingly suspend reality. We stay up until 2 a.m. wrapping gifts in shapes that defy geometry. We drive forty-five minutes to see a single inflatable Santa on a neighbour’s roof. We eat carbs without apology. If you are grieving, the carols cut like glass
This is the season’s cruel genius: it demands joy, and in doing so, reminds us of every joy we have lost. The first Christmas after a death. The Diwali where the phone doesn’t ring. The New Year’s Eve where the countdown feels like a funeral bell.
By J. Harper
The festive season magnifies everything. If you are happy, you become euphoric. If you are lonely, you become desolate. If you are grieving, the carols cut like glass.
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.
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.
But during the festive season, we willingly suspend reality. We stay up until 2 a.m. wrapping gifts in shapes that defy geometry. We drive forty-five minutes to see a single inflatable Santa on a neighbour’s roof. We eat carbs without apology.
This is the season’s cruel genius: it demands joy, and in doing so, reminds us of every joy we have lost. The first Christmas after a death. The Diwali where the phone doesn’t ring. The New Year’s Eve where the countdown feels like a funeral bell.
By J. Harper
