In our home, December offers a great pause. Few responsibilities are doled out, save for the finding of a missing puzzle piece, candying the pecans, raveling the yarn ball back into its basket. We read poetry and scripture daily, adding in a beloved picture book from years passed. We work with our hands, topping peg dolls with acorn hats, melting peppermints into waxed stars, crafting salt dough nativities and cutting all manner of paper snow for window adornment. Our children are busy little elves all morning, their mother scattering surprises and whimsy into afternoon calendar squares: Today, a snowy hike! Tomorrow, a play! Thursday, a chocolate shoppe tour!
It can sometimes seem like work to create such whimsy, but only when I forget the plot. In those moments, I bring a single guiding principle into sharper focus: What do I want Christmas to feel like? (I have, in the past, gotten this wrong in favor of a different question: What do I want Christmas to look like?) The answer never steers me wrong, and often results in a forgoing of some age-old tradition in favor of rest, or togetherness, or love.
And so: ice-skating is swapped for a cozy night indoors, clove cider in a stockpot, cedar on the hearth.
