Because it’s so difficult to remove the cultural lenses through which we view the world, our own traditions can become invisible because they are so routine, so practiced. That’s why, a few years ago, I was rather shocked to find that I love the steady march of the Midwestern American fall holidays – not just in their practice, but in their philosophy.
First, with Halloween, we mock death. We hang zombies and skeletons from our porches. We purchase fake blood and fangs, and flagrantly tempt diabetes. It’s spooky, this mortality thing, but fun. We all love a good scare.
Then, as the days grow even shorter, and even before the sugar high has completely worn off, we gather with our friends and families to feast. The goofiness of early fall gone, we fill our bellies and give thanks.
And then, four weeks after that, just days after the darkest, longest night of all, we gather again and rejoice in the coming of new life and longer days. I say this as a crusty, skeptical agnostic with a spiritual side: I love the symbolism of yuletide Christmas, which was the biggest celebration of the year in my family. We celebrate hope, the birth of a baby in the darkest time of the year.
We give gifts to each other, but especially, give gifts to our children. We try to instill in them the magic of the season, the irony that just when things become blanketed with snow, we celebrate life and pray for peace, our thoughts turned toward spring.
These are my traditions: Embrace the silliness of the whole shebang. Then, pause and take time to be deeply thankful. When things get the darkest, celebrate new life. Lastly, stay up too late, drink champagne, kiss your loved ones, and start fresh.
