Nadine’s first-ever attempt at a Christmas Letter

So here goes. I’ve mocked, parodied, and marveled over batch after batch of this much-maligned tradition, but never before have I even contemplated writing my own Christmas letter.

Then again, I’ve never spent Dec. 25th away from home and family—certainly not in a country whose version of a Christmas tree consists of a distressingly perfect cone of either fake tree or scaffolding, robed in a spectacularly tacky ensemble of silver streamer tinsel netting, enormous droopy red bows made out of some unidentifiable material, multicolor strings of light, and, if you’re extra-lucky, some beatific, dopey plastic-faced angels to top it off. Yes, fair, I have seen many horrific displays of miserable taste disguised as festiveness right close to home. The difference is that this year, I don’t have the counterweight of the elegance of Granny’s candle-filled and apple-laded tree, or the creative simplicity of Mom’s pruning-turned-decoration.

This absence leads me to that favorite question: what is the meaning of Christmas? Without attending church in years, I still hold on to Christmas as a highlight of the year, as a ritual above the realm of consumerism, and as a season more than a day. This December, though, I keep forgetting that Christmas is coming. So I have to ask myself, though what can you hold onto about Christmas when everything feels utterly foreign?

Well, it’s not the decoration-style—Chile’s version of “Christmasing it up” consists entirely of the aforementioned trees plonked down in town squares and various red fluffy adornments, in the form of bows, Santa hats, ribbons. Lacking the mediating backdrop of fresh white snow, these splashes of color feel almost violent, certainly out-of-place, and hardly heart-warming. Maybe the lesson is that snow, and general landscape-bareness, makes us more tolerant and welcoming of the silliness inherent in festiveness.

Trying to put myself in the Christmas mood without snow, short days, leafless trees and the like has proved to me the pagan, seasonal character of this ostensibly religious holiday. Take candles: I’d make up some festive function for pretty sticks of light if I had to entertain myself in pre-electricity wintery Europe—but here in south Chile, where I fall asleep to a dark-blue sky, my heart isn’t crying out for them. In some ways, I think I love Christmas because I need to: getting excited about this fantastic piece of cultural construction distracts me from the ever-shortening days, so that by the time the tree’s in the fire, the days are already getting longer. This theory of Christmas-as-distraction explains why the general absence of the holiday in my life has not, thus far, proved catastrophic.

But that’s not the whole story. Climate aside, missing Christmas this year is teaching me a few things that the actual celebration has not. First off: the hardest moments come when you realize that a collection of cousins, grandparents, aunts, uncles, and siblings are piled onto sofas, singing carols off-key from the old family song book. That’s it: you’re missing this event for another year. Or when you hear about various friends, who have been off and away beginning that post-college phenomenon known as “life,” are crowded around a table at some underground Cambridge bar, trading stories about what “life” is turning out to be like. Does your absence mean you’re out of this loop now? Skype calls, gchats, rambling emails—all of these help fill in the gaps. But Christmas is a time when many people actually get to see each other; fraught and imperfect as these sightings may be, they are easy to get nostalgic about when you’re missing out. So yes, I hope that this year will teach me to take off the Grinch hat and appreciate the company that this season permits.

I’ve done a lot of listening to Christmas music in the past few days, in an attempt to seep some spirit in between my ears. This process has inspired assorted realizations: Christmas bells played from a computer sound infuriating; typing in “Christmas” into your iTunes search area means that if you’re not careful, you end up with horrific pop/ whiny follow-ups to whatever carol you intended to listen to. Most of all, though, hearing some of the old staples of Brearley Winter Assemblies or Christmas church services come piping out of my laptop makes me realize how these venerable institutions lend grandness and ceremony to our celebrations. The sense of history and company that they create serves as a powerful antidote to both tackiness and loneliness, which otherwise can creep into the experience of Christmas. I know—hardly an original observation here. But in my first year not attached to an educational institution, I’m recognizing why they gain such loyal followings, despite their imperfections.

Long days of sunlight mean that it’s not about infusing cheer into the darkness, but the approach of Christmas still colors how I think about those inevitable low moments here. Living on a small farm with only a dozen other people means that the so-called Christmas spirit of warmth, friendliness, and neighborliness is more a way of life than a seasonal ideal, but I still feel grateful for the particular kindness that various people have shown me after hearing that I’m spending the holiday away from home. As purifying as a dose of solitude can be, I’m learning to recognize the moments when I need to walk over to Carmen’s house for a chat over mate, or learn some tricks of the trade while helping Vicente in the garden. I urge myself to gestures of hospitality even when feeling low-energy. These may not be holiday cocktail parties—I have come across neither eggnog nor party dresses—but they are moments to laugh and converse nonetheless.

Even here, a touch of light goes a long way toward dispelling doubts and distress. Yesterday, the weather-gods of Pumalin graced us with wave after wave of downpour, with house-rattling winds and occasional spells of hail thrown into the mix. By afternoon, my enthusiasm for this experience reached a low. I remembered that my kind parents had offered to fly me home for Christmas, and wondered what had possibly inspired me to vote down the idea. The rain let up a little; I convinced myself to trek down to the water—kayak on head—to see the world a little. Paddling against the wind and tide, I spent a while doubting I was moving at all. Finally out in the middle of the fjord, I opted for float-time, and, lo and behold, the evening sun showed its face, right on cue, just for long enough to light up the ocean and mountains to remind me why I came back here. That was all it took—a minute of sun to recreate the sense of excitement and grandeur that first drew me to this place. I think there’s a touch of Christmas there, in the brief moments of light in the midst of work and grayness that reveal the possibility of delight.

And so, my friends, you have just read my first Christmas letter. I send it with the stamp of a big imaginary hug, and wish you a merry whatever-you-celebrate!