A week ago we took ourselves to a nearby tree farm and in the bitter cold and fading daylight, we searched for our tree. This is a ritual we've long held, only we've practiced it the last eleven years in a different home, and at a different tree farm. While the rituals - each ornament pulled from the carefully packed boxes pulled from storage, the songs playing, all remain the same as other years, we are each aware that these corners are slightly unfamiliar, a little less loved, yet, by us. The fresh paint that Alex and I applied in the days following Thanksgiving helped freshen spaces and certainly made much of the downstairs feel more like ours. And we're still in the midst of unpacking, shuffling belongings and spaces, weaving paths between tools, so unpacking yet more Yule boxes feels a bit too much at times. I'm a nester, and the frustration and nostalgia for my used-to-be home sets in when I can't find places for our beloved seasonal treasures. It's certainly no hardship, but it does make the tears come and my heart ache, just a bit, sometimes. I know these spaces will evolve and be set right by us in the years to come, and truly, much of this house is beginning to show signs of our Yule.
So we put the lights on the tree, as we do every year, sing I'll Be Home For Christmas in the shower until the tears flow (better out than in) and put paperwhites in each pottery bowl as it gets unpacked. We remember Nana, gone a whole year, as we hang each ornament. We know how to do this. We are good at making home and creating these seasonal rituals. Yes, this year is different, a year of transition; our first Yule here at the farm is bound to feel both wonderful and wistful. Merry and bright, that's just what this place, these hearts, need. We'll do that.
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