We look forward to them, and we breathe a sigh of relief when they’re over. I’m talking about the holidays. We grumble about the commercialism, guests that come in droves, children home from school and constantly underfoot, or home from college constantly flying the coop to who knows where and with who knows whom, or adult grandchildren on a break from work who can only stay a long weekend, although we are grateful for the opportunity to get to know them anew.
So we decorate our houses. We bake, wrap presents, stand in line at the post office. We get more mail to answer, more catalogs. Most of it is fun. It is lovely to see friends’ children and grandchildren, how much they’ve grown since last year. While the cute child has turned into an awkward, rather unattractive teenager, last year’s overweight teenager has blossomed into a charming and confident young adult. The baby is now walking, and everyone else has grown a bit older looking. Have we? We also wonder whether it is as much of a shock for others to see us after a year’s absence as for us to see them. We lie and say, “You haven’t changed a bit.”
We eat latkes at one home and Christmas fruitcakes and cookies at another. We sing “Dreidel, dreidel” one day and “Silent Night” another.
I send gingerbread houses to all the children I know, some arrive early for Chanukah, others later for Christmas. I get short phone calls from grandkids, “Thank you for the gingerbread house, Grandma. I love you. Goodbye” and receive letters of thanks from friends’ children in large, uneven handwriting. Those that don’t respond by the end of January, I call and ask, “Did you get the gingerbread house?” “Oh yes, thank you. We’ve been so busy; so sorry.” They don’t get one next year. I received a lovely phone call from a niece, my late brother’s daughter, “I love the gingerbread house you sent my children. I remember getting them when I was a little girl.” Has it really been than long that I have been sending these?
So among the activity, the tension, the lack of time, it is important to stop, reflect on the past year, be sad for what was left undone or unsaid, remember those who have died or moved away, be glad for the successes, for what has been accomplished, and celebrate family and friends with whom we have shared both the good and not-so-good times.
I find it important to connect to our past, to our ancestors who celebrated Chanukah and Christmas and probably had similar concerns and hopes. Both Jews and Christians were persecuted at various times in our histories. Sadly to this day both are still being persecuted in many parts of the world. We in the United States should be particularly thankful that we can light the menorah candles and the Christmas tree, singing with gratitude that we are able to do so freely without fear.
When I was little girl growing up in Paris, Christmas did not include the commercialism of today. There was no proliferation of presents for children; instead, I remember receiving walnuts and oranges from Palestine—both were a real treat. Jan. 6 marked Epiphany, or Three Kings’ Day, an equally important holiday with the traditional French galette des rois (three kings cake). For some mysterious reason, every year my brother or I would get the slice with the little baby Jesus in it; whoever received it would get to wear a gold, paper crown.
Traditions are essential. Each family has its own rituals passed on from generation to generation; as children grow and have their own families they embrace these ceremonies. These customs bind generations and create a tie to our past and a connection to the future.
When the holiday hubbub is all over, there is often a period of letdown. Following the December whirlwind, it’s important to have plans for the new year, something to look forward to—a year full of unknowns, opportunities, adventures, and growing not only older, but wiser. Natasha Josefowitz taught the first course in the United States on women in management and is the author of more than 20 books. She lives at the White Sands in La Jolla. Copyright © 2016. Natasha Josefowitz. All rights reserved.