I have gotten pretty decent at letting go of things.  I have data to support this assertion.  I swear I didn’t totally make it up.

But thinking you have gotten pretty decent at something is generally an indicator of a big, hairy blindspot in which you enjoy your smug oblivion, sucking hard in clear sight of the people around you, most of whom are often gracious enough to leave you to it and only make fun when you aren’t around. This is the set up for what one may affectionately call “the holy gift of humility”.

But there really is data:

I let go of my favorite shirt, with some compassionate encouragement from my friend Liz, who pointed out that it was so worn out that there was literally no part of it that could be salvaged for any practical purpose other than perhaps a crude, thin gag with a zipper.

I threw 105 pounds of weird condiments and pickles into a giant black garbage can when I left my house.  And by the way, I left my house.  And my dog.  I let go of a man I loved who had no business staying. I let go of self-criticism, 2 businesses, the world’s most comfortable couch, cable TV.  I took my favorite bracelet off my wrist and gave it to a homeless girl. I let go of dairy products (and not coincidentally, chronic diarrhea). Nearly 30 pairs of shoes, pounds of clothes, books and books and books, friends who didn’t make sense, and on and on.

But until this minute, I have not been able to let go of Christmas.  What gives?

The first few failure years happened pretty organically.  A year far away from home, a busted, unhealthy marriage that lasted much too long (the letting go lessons happened AFTER that, see…), snow storms, communication snafus.  But at some point, about 12 years in, it became kind of obvious that there was a Christmas curse.  Probably a hex placed on my Christmases by some jealous, bitter sea witch.  That’s the only reasonable reality.

Because Christmas in my childhood house was pure magic. I know this because my memories are flawless and haven’t at all been pieced together conveniently from favorable snippets of many years, probably with some scenes from Disney movies thrown in.  Decorations were gathered from the woods and assembled with ribbons and lights (not by birds – don’t be silly).  Every ornament had meaning.  Meals were garden-grown and homemade.  Fires crackled, jokes flew, games and snowball fights happened, gifts grew into mountains that felt like careful statements of understanding and affection.  (I have literally never returned a gift and can’t imagine how anyone could.)  We sang songs around the piano.  Christmas was the annual summary celebration of all the things we loved about each other and our lucky, gorgeous lifestyle.

So when it became clear in my adulthood that Christmas was in its rebellious teen years, it didn’t occur to me to let it go. It seemed it required fixing more than letting go.  About 12 years of vigorous, dedicated, sweat-streaked, somewhat angry fixing.  Much like my marriage, but longer and with deeper roots.  I will fix you, Christmas, you little asshole.  You will thank me.  Things will be perfect and we will hug and sing songs.  Whether you fucking like it or not.  Love you.  You’re welcome.

Fast forward 12 years and I just realized I was doing that.  Like today.

So now it is time to let Christmas go.  Just like that shirt.  And like my idea of what life should be.

Part of letting go of things is pausing long enough on the memory of the thing in question to actually comprehend what it is you are letting go of.  You don’t just let go of a shirt.  You let go of some self-definition that goes with the shirt.  You let go of the day you bought it and the day you wore it when great things happened.  You let go of your fear that there will never be another shirt.  You let go of the time it will take you to drop the forsaken shirt off at Goodwill.

It takes a minute to do the processing that allows a shirt to just be a shirt – or to get cool with all the non-shirt-related loss that comes with letting the shirt go.  Stupid shirt (wipes away a tear).

I haven’t been able to let go of Christmas because Christmas isn’t just Christmas.  It’s the summary of life as I hoped and felt certain it would be.  Life of family, learning, singing, playing, giving, sharing, helping, cooking, telling stories, and wearing adorable animal slippers.  I have a deep love of tradition, harmony, and feeling a part of things bigger and older than me.  I feel like having beautiful childhood holidays made me the guardian of a seed of magic – of family legacy – looking for a place to plant it, wanting to see it come to back to life.

But the legacy of Christmas isn’t a seed, waiting to sprout.  It isn’t dormant and locked up like that.

It’s a sparkly pantry full of luscious ingredients, ingredients that were baked into one, magical Christmas cake for many years, now missing a few key ingredients to be that same cake going forward. But rich a few more to be something new and sincere, something ever-evolving but rooted in the same essential goodness and values.

So Christmas…I am letting you go.  Fly away, sweet Christmas.  Come back – or don’t – in whatever form suits you.  You are free.  I’ll be here chewing up all the beautiful little love nuggets you’ve left under the tree over the years and assimilating them into my heart to use every day, leaving a little trail of glitter along the way.

Also, I may just plan to go to the Maldives next year.

<tiny mouse voice> God bless us every one. </tiny mouse voice>