When I was in high school, there was a popular daily reflection practice--I want to say it originated with Oprah--where you were supposed to take time each evening to write down three things you were grateful for. Cultivating gratitude and all.
It's a lovely sentiment, but when I tried it, I just felt depressed. On too many days, I couldn't think of anything particular I was grateful for. Generic statements about "family and friends" seemed like a copout. When I wrote down trivial things that didn't really count, I felt insincere, not reenergized by my bounty.
I recently checked out Ross Gay's The Book of (More) Delights, from which I've read exactly one essay (and the introduction, if that counts). Still, I find myself feeling inspired simply by the idea of his brief essays. They seem doable! And charming! And I probably should find more delight, particularly as we head into winter, which I never weather (pun intended?) well.
Of course, given my previous experience, I'm hesitant. What if I find no delight, only monotony? What if I feel cynical, or--even worse--sentimental? Still, as I lay in bed last night, a first topic came to me. So here goes.
Yesterday, my family drove out to Corsi Tree Farm to cut down our Christmas tree. It's a tradition we started in 2020, when we wanted to find some new festive fun--outside and away from everyone else. Cutting down a tree in nowhere Ohio fit the bill.
Because everyone else had the same idea in 2020, and because we visited a few weekends into the holiday season, the selection was poor by the time we arrived. We walked up and down the rows of neatly planted trees, feeling like Goldilocks: all the trees were too short, too tall, or weirdly misshapen. No "just right." Additionally, it had rained recently, so the fields were full of mud, and my youngest daughter, Clara, was only three, so she had difficulty walking. After what must have been at least an hour of searching, we headed into a "natural" area where the trees weren't planted in rows but haphazardly, often right up against each other. It was there that we found the perfect tree.
It wasn't actually perfect--a number of branches stuck out in weird angles--but we were proud. Jeremy lay on the ground to saw the tree down. We bought the girls candy and cookies at the gift shop. They proudly decorated our tree when we returned home.
We wanted to repeat the tradition in 2021, but a first floor renovation meant no room. We returned in 2022--and found a tree much more easily--and then again this year.
Now that my girls are six and nine, family traditions are a mixed bag. The girls still enjoy many of the same things they did when they were younger, but we also get far more complaining: they're bored, they want to spent time with friends, they want to be lazy around the house.
Still, when I pushed them out the door just after 9am on Sunday, no one was grumpy. On the ride there, the girls eagerly shared their memories of tree hunting from years prior. We talked about Clara getting stuck in the mud. We talked about Amelia buying a stick full of gummy candies. They were enthusiastic.
Once we arrived and got out, I felt myself perking up too. The air was brisk but not uncomfortable. It was bright, and open fields of trees lay before us. We were early in the season, and there was a lot of inventory. We quickly found several suitable trees. The girls were eager to choose right away, but there was no way I was going to drive forty minutes just to find a tree in five. We hiked on.
Inevitably, the complaining began. Amelia said I was too picky. Clara said we'd walked too far. Still, I could tell their hearts weren't really in the whining. It was beautiful, and it felt good to be outside. We got into the depths of the Canaan Firs, and it was clear our tree was here. My Texas aunt texted and remarked that she hadn't had a real tree in ages. I smiled to myself, knowing I'd have a real Fir scenting my home for the next month. We picked a few potential trees with lovely shapes and full branches, and I ran back and forth between our finalists. The winner was one Jeremy picked.
Clara insisted on helping Jeremy drag the tree back to the barn in which we'd pay. All the ride home, the girls excitedly talked about the decorating process. There'd be hot chocolate and popcorn and Christmas music. We started to name our favorite ornaments: the cats battling over popcorn; the fencers to resemble Jeremy and me; the ceramic turtle. We reminisced about the ornaments we'd made over the years.
That evening, once we'd finished decorating, the girls ran off to a friend's house. They got into stupid fights that evening; I felt frustrated.
But today I can look at our tree in our living room, decorated proudly by my family. Ornaments from all our years together cover the tree. My girls won't always be little, and I'm sure they'll fight the family tree-cutting tradition in years to come. Still, this year, I can delight in our moments together. And I can remember that the world is a delight--maybe even I can embrace the Ohio winter.
