Solstice and Silver Bells: It’s Christmastime in the Market

Do it, Do it!

Ohhh, I’ve been so lazy in updating my blog! Agh! I suppose a lack of discipline and a nose-grinding work schedule would be largely the culprit, but in the spirit of the season, let me chuck up my complacency to something more festive.

IT’S ALMOST CHRISTMAS!!!!! YAY!!!

And to this, one might say: well, you haven’t updated since Halloween. And I would reply in earnest: Yeah, but I’ve been celebrating Christmas since November 1st, I just haven’t had the time! Really! Christmas is not just one mere day of rum-caked and spiced scented festiveness. It’s a whole 5th season for me, distinct and dearer than the doldrums of the rest of the winter season.

When November 1st hits, as I find my mind becomes single-minded into preparations for this holiday, others tend to watch over this enthusiasm with mixed emotions – some think it’s cute, others are disdainful. Some find it achingly annoying that on December 1st, I know that EZ Rock plays non-stop Christmas carols, and I tend to dutifully listen to that station during my work day (oh, my poor co-workers..), and some find it tolerable when I correct them that it’s  ”Eleven Piper’s Piping, not Seven!”. Some couldn’t care less.

But oh, I care.

Christmas is my cherry-on-top, my release to emotion and generosity, my ritual dance, my anchor to what was good in my childhood, my sensual stay-cation from the regular routine of life. Christmas fills my world up with safety and familiarity, turning me soft , wistful and surprisingly calm. Christmas is the living funeral and the wake of the year – a time to give cheers to the death of the past 365 of life, and the birth of a new cycle.

I really, really love Christmas…..

I always find that the festive season provides me with a good measure of how I have managed to stamp my footprint into existence over the past year. People seem much more friendly and affectionate, letting me know where I’m at, and where I stand.

This morning, I saw the shop owner of Mexican Foods (I think it’s actually called that ) on Baldwin St as I walked to work. Normally he and I exchange a daily hello as he opens his doors for business, and yet today he comes and takes my arm like a gentleman.

“Good morning, miss” he says to me in a heavy Spanish accent, his hair perfectly combed. Bemused, I say the same.

“It’s almost Christmas,” he tells me, “Are you ready for Christmas, enh?’ . I smile and say “I think so. Almost!”  He grins. “Good, good.” Then he releases my arm and we wish each other a good day.

A week ago I made eye contact with a bespectacled man with a greying beard and trench coat that I’ve seen around the neighbourhood a few times before. I spotted him while paying for my coffee at MoonBean, and carried on with my errands. Climbing on the streetcar 5 minutes later, I see him sitting in the back and we introduce ourselves. He’s Jim, a photographer. He says he recognizes me, sees me around the market all the time. We briefly discuss a common annoyance of very messy roommates before exchanging blog information as we part in different directions at Spadina. I really liked that he recognized me.

Last Friday, my coworker Alysa and I held a ‘Chrismukkah‘ party at her house, inviting our friends and family. Celebrating the two light-bearing holidays felt  (at least for me) natural; two distinct and unique holidays that shared neutral ground in chasing away the cold hard darkness. It was actually a great way to bring people together, of all backgrounds, and wish them well before the start of the New Year. As the ambassador of non-religious Christmasness, I dressed up in a red-velvet elf dress, complete with candy cane stocking and a Father Christmas hood. I rocked the jingle bells and furnished the potluck dinner with garlands, poinsettia, peppermints and gingerbread.

As we stood together by Alysa’s window to light the Menorah, she offered if someone would like to do the honours; I volunteered. After about a good 5 minutes of debate amoungst those who were Jewish if it was best to light right-from-left, or left-from-right, I got the go-ahead, took a single taper and lit the candles one by one – left to right. Getting ready to head out to the Festival of Lights on Monday, I asked Alysa if she thought it was ok that I had been the one to light the Menorah – being  that a) I’m not Jewish, and b) I’m not Jewish, participating in a sacred Chanukkah ritual while dressed in an red-and-white elf costume.

Alysa’s eyes grew serious and she gave a half-smile. “Yeah. I mean, why not? Whatever, it’s my house.”

“I know, but I just….wouldn’t want to offend someone.”

Alysa thought for a minute.

“You know, what we did was beautiful. No, seriously. 50 years ago? 50 years ago in say, Europe? This would have never have happened. Chrismukkah wouldn’t have happened. You and I probably wouldn’t even be friends.”

I quietly protested that I would have still been her friend, or at least I’d like to think so. But she has a point.

We got to the Festival of Lights; Augusta Ave. was already packed. Chunks  of people were there, armed to the teeth with warm winter clothes, many carrying homemade lanterns and torches. We unglued ourselves from the main throng and watched from afar as Red Spectacle Arts paraded down the street with ghostly puppets of Caribou and Moonfaces. Once that had cleared, we walked past the displays of silver wolves atop of Shay’s and Coral Fish Market, and a lone flute player standing amoungst cut-outs of Native-inspired animals. We see one traditional Aboriginal drummer at the corner of Baldwin and Kensington Ave., then travel south on Kensington to watch further drumming by Marie Gaudet, a woman who is active within the Native community I work for. She sings a few songs, as my mind wanders and observe the rest of the festival around me, I find myself surprisingly singing along to many of songs being drummed out by Marie. Who knew I remembered the words? I smile to myself, my breath clouding in front of me.

The night ended on Cara’s couch with a bowl of chili and throngs of locals and friends of hers, or her roommate Bruce’s. I’m caught between trying to carry on a conversation about Untouchables in India, and veganism, and a two-year old that keeps toddling to my knees, reaching out for my spoon.  Leaving at yet another “reasonable time” in order to get up for work the next day, I wish people I know and random strangers a Happy Solstice and set off for the burrows of my bed.

So tomorrow I return back to the suburbs, to home, where my Christmas tree glows by the piano, mom has Nat King Cole on the stereo and my stocking is waiting by the fireplace to be hung. My family will ascend on Thursday, and I will be in my new red-satin Christmas dress and heels, spinning in the smell of the food and my mother’s mandatory pre-dinner anxiety. I’ll have chocolate underneath my newly manicured finger nails. I’ll be cursing having to wear pantyhose. I’ll read the Nutcracker and sip hot chocolate, before going for a massage scheduled that morning, because that’s my personal Christmas Eve ritual. I’ll hold the white ball ornament that says “Baby’s First Christmas 1984″. I’ll think about how much I’ve changed over the past year, and how much more growing up I still have to do.

But it’ll be Christmas, and all this comes with it – all this joy, this community, this beauty, this death, this familiar place, this warmth, this light; all the love and regret, the loss and renewal, comfort and joy, merry and bright. It all comes to a head here. I will fall on my knees to hear the angels voices. I will thank the Greatness for another year speant in the presence of love.