Merry Christmas, finally

The day before Christmas: cold, gusty and wintery. The sun was hanging high on a deceivingly calm and clear blue sky. For a change I had actually caught up with all my email and work list. There in the office scattering about were but a few of us, hanging on for the last stretch before holiday break commenced. The air was lazy and aimless, as was inside of me. One more day and a few hours of changes, Christmas would be here and I was none at all merry or jolly. There should be a law against any vacation trip prior to Christmas, which we had foolishly committed the week before, even for the mere reason of a 25th wedding anniversary. Returning from a less-than-successful trip 4 days before Christmas yielded many undesirable side effects, i.e. an empty refrigerator, a Christmas tree with no gifts underneath and a hollow heart devoid of joy or hope.

Merry or not, the dreadful day did arrive and, ironically, actually started with a miracle: I slept straight through the night. By 9am, all Christmas magic or ritual was performed and completed. There ahead of us was yet a long day with no planned activity or company. Outside the sky was covered with a mass of grey, while the ground the remnant of autumn brown. We had done various attempts to celebrate the joy of season: going home to family in Pittsburgh, crashing friends’ Christmas party in New England or even hosting our own. This year raking leaves was added to the collection; not at all orthodox, but at least original. From 9:30am to 2pm past, we attacked the yard with a vengeance: raking, blowing and bagging. Though painstaking, there is something precious about laborious acts in its purifying or therapeutic effect. The benefits are two-folds. First off, you experience a rare luxury when body and mind coexist in harmony, where one’s productivity (or not) impacts little that of the other’s (except for a few unpleasant times when the power cord of the leaf blower became entangled or caught). In fact, it is one of those moments when physical activity actually promotes mental imagination to run free and wild. Secondly, there is always some goal associated with the toil that helps forming an allegiance between those two. Such goal, sometimes trivial or ridiculous (like raking leaves before next week’s pick-up) produces hope and dream, without which life is reduced to perpetual drudgery.

5 hours of harmony, or peace on earth, (except our cou-de-sac, from the intruding, screaming leaf blower) and 40+ bags of leaves on the curb later, we returned to the house exhausted though exhilarated. I had not realized it would have taken that long and that the Christmas dinner was still in the refrigerator. I wasted no time in plunging into the 2nd act of the Christmas Carol, washing, cutting and cooking like a storm. I was about to regret our prior conquest (or impulse) in raking leaves, when I looked outside of the window and there they were: the fluffy flakes ever so gingerly, but definitely, dancing around. I gasped and remembered my neighbor telling me the day before: it might snow on Christmas and if it did, it would be a White Christmas since 1940’s…. Be it the merit of making the statistics or record, I was instantly excited. The magic of snow, small scale then as there was but a dust draping lightly on the ground, trees and roof tops, was magnified in this cheerless heart of mine when it was combined with our good timing in finishing raking the yard. As I witnessed the dancing miracle before my eyes, my ear was ringing what C had said the day before when we went to visit him. He was all concerned about my lack of Christmas joy and was letting me in the remedy of this ailment: “lie down on the floor and listen to the Christmas hymns!” Although his hearing was impaired from the side effects of another treatment he had received a couple of weeks ago, my loving pastor’s Christmas cheer was none the less true and full in his sparking eyes and wide grin. He who had little reason to rejoice was showing this scrooge who had every reason to how to be merry for Christmas. Suddenly I almost lost my breath as my eyes became blurry – It must have been the phantom like snow and its playing a mischievous trick on me. I think. I realized then and there the secret of Christmas: it lies not on my mood or feeling, the gifts or feast, friends and family. It was hidden behind his twinkling eyes and what ignited my Pastor’s joy in December or July, despite of all.


For me, 2010 Christmas came finally at exactly hour 1600, December 25. And it had nothing to do with the snow.

Brown thumb

Over one month had passed since my return. All work has been caught up, home-front and work force, all except that of the spirit of Christmas – I have not yet been able to live it or feel it despite of the help from TV commercials, radio carols and even all the Christmas parties. Losing 3 weeks had deprived me of the necessary course of migration to the climax of the year. The incurred damage is not only internal but also external, in that even our Christmas tree was not set up well after the Thanksgiving week.

The symptom seemed to be contagious within the family too. Even Luke, our Christmas child, exhibited little excitement for the holiday. A Christmas without his hope and dreams is no Christmas. It simply would not do. I decided to take remediation action: time to get the tree up! We had spent the whole Saturday raking leaves, leaving us Sunday afternoon the only time for mission of Christmas rescue. The designated tree man, though, was pressed with tasks of higher priority then, thus I became the inevitable substitute. I have not been known ever for want of energy and drive at calls of necessity. In fact, I am a firm believer of being the superior species in the claim of that there is nothing we, the child-bearers, cannot do. Putting up a Christmas tree is no exception. Like any other created, flawed creature, I am well aware of my own shortages, but my determination makes up for any possible deficiency – any but 2 things: sewing and gardening. Christmas tree may have the name of “tree”, but in our home it is 100% artificial, consequently 100% safe from my lack of green thumb.

I have wondered why and how I could have been born and raised by 2 parents with innate passion and skills for gardening and still became a walking nightmare in the company of nature. To say that I cannot garden is an understatement. If trees, shrubs and flowers have any say or votes, I would be in fact their worst enemy or predator without even trying. But the tree is made of plastic, so what harm could I possibly incur? That day was packed with actions: driving Luke to his final musical engagement, picking up a few items from stores and even bagging the last few piles of leaves in the chilly, windy weather. Finally I saved the best for the last. Standing in the middle of the great room with a box all duck-taped up, I stared at my “mission” still with little concern. The original tree assignee happened to be a methodical and patient worker. He had labeled and grouped all branches with precise order instruction on the box. I started pulling the piles of branches out and assembling them, feeling brave and invincible. The boom box was singing Christmas carols merrily, matching that of my jolly and carefree spirit. Life was good, and EASY. As I moved along, I noticed some branches hanging slightly too loose for my liking. I gave it a firmer push onto the supporting pole and just like that the pocket snapped and the branch came completely detached. My eyes and mouth dropped open. I could not believe this mishap – certainly this is NOT happening! But the evidence, the broken limb lying lifeless at my hands, was staring vacantly back at me. Nearly 20 years of age, safe and sound under the care of another hand, our Christmas tree broke at my first touch.

So everything went southbound from there. Gone was my gaiety, the Christmas cheer and of course the tree. My drive and zeal deflated, I wrapped up the rest of the mission hastily, abandoning the remaining task of lights and ornaments hanging. I could not even bare the sight of the post mortem. It was a pitiful scene of aftermath with plastic needles panickly scattered around. At 6pm past, the house was quiet and devoid of daylight and life, except that of the destroyer. I realized with a sinking heart that without a doubt the curse of brown thumb extended beyond the boundary of nature. I may be anything - resolute, industrious and spirited, but never the nurturing with a green thumb. It took a 20-year-old, plastic tree to teach me the lesson: the law of nature (literally this time) cannot be violated – not without a price.

2010 marks the year of me becoming the Christmas Grinch when I killed our Christmas Tree.

My Father's Daughter

1.5 months later, 3 weeks’ trip home included, I am back to this side of the ocean. A long journey like that, in distance and time, feels anything but long. There had been much anxiety beforehand, but it did work out with tons of fun, enough rest and even an unexpected happy ending. But why should I ever be surprised? Life has determined to continue playing the same trick on me with its satire and unpredictability. To date, the adventure still overwhelmed me much that I have not yet been able to digest and reflect weeks later.

For the world’s eyes only, I bounced back with barely a day of rest, returning to my job and routines as I battled the persistent jet leg and demanding catch-up with both work and preparation of Thanksgiving. The reality within, though, is the struggle to make peace or sense out of the trip. I had expected its worst when it did quite the opposite. Among all my apprehensions, none other surpassed the relationship I have had with my father.

Oddly, I resemble him the most out of his 4 children. Many have marveled and joked about my being the exact replica of him: dark and small framed with the same facial feature, where the contrariness is that I am exactly the opposite of him. He is reserved and disciplined, while I am explosive and impulsive; he is assertive and graceful yet I timid and awkward; he is forever detached from all fear and care and I perpetually restless and fretful. The biggest absurdity is in as much as our outward resemblance our internal difference has made our relationship an absolute impossibility. Not only have I not had any father-daughter talks or walks, but also his presence intimated me such that I wouldn’t know what to say or act when he was around. It would be an understatement to quote me as NO-“daddy’s little girl”.

Many decades later, across an ocean and a vast foreign land, the separation of time and space may have put this strain between us in remission but it silently continued on and faithfully resurfaced with each trip home. Like any survivors, I developed schemes to cope with life’s obstinate obstacles – in this case, avoiding being with him alone. That was why it surprised even me when I volunteered to go hiking with him the 2nd day after I returned home.

It was one of those mysterious moments when your impulsivity gets the better of you. I could see on his face the same confusion, milder but apparent, at my request. Mayhap he too had a similar out-of-body experience when his sensitivity betrays his better sense, but he did not protest. At 2:30pm, we set out. Our ride to the park was but a 15-minute route through a busy city. I chatted on lightly as I surveyed mindlessly the life and activity on the streets that looked completely alien to me decades later. I was wondering if they looked back at us but a pair of normal father and daughter going outing. Finally we parked and started our hike. It began at the foot of the mountain with endless steps winding around and all the way up. The path was rocky but well maintained. He led the way. At 75, my father is still active and fit. His dancer frame from behind looked nimble and at ease as he took the steps effortlessly. At 3pm, the mountain was almost deserted with air moving soundlessly on the tree top. It was already in the midst of November, and yet the leaves in that tropical island were still in their vibrant green. There in front of me was my estranged father, so close yet forever so far, taking me for a hike. The strenuous activity left us little energy for conversation as we climbed up and down, taking caution for every step. Even then, the contrast between us was evident: he was the royal prince, swift and gracious and I the gypsy, careless and clumsy. Somehow, it felt comfortable: the quiet path, the cool, whispering air and the lazy afternoon sun. And in the mist of that tranquility were the 2 strangers communing wordlessly first time of their life.

One and half hours later, we returned to the foot of the mountain. My knees had taken a toll from those endless steps and I was grateful to see them behind me. My father, surprisingly, looked as unaffected as he ever was. I wondered if that was true inside too. We hopped back to the car and headed back. Traffic started to pick up for rush hour now. As we passed through the same streets, I remembered in growing up when my friends talked of their father-daughter moments how fascinated I was with those mysterious, almost alien experiences of theirs. I couldn’t exactly claim our 2-hour hike as one of those, but I would definitely with much pride chime in now: well, I went hiking with my father!