The Christmas spirit doesn’t really begin to have its way with me until the tree is in the house. Yesterday, we got the tree. I should say, I sat in the car in the parking lot of our local produce store while the blessed Mrs. Smith returned with a cute-as-a-button three-and-a-half-foot-tall tabletop live Christmas tree. It is now in the house, up, watered, and lighted.
It is a symbol, and as with all symbols, it can live on different levels. The most accessible of these levels is nostalgia, the simple pleasant remembrance of times past. Nostalgia can also be the comfort of the materials themselves. Much of our speech and writing isnostalgic—we rely on and repeat what we know, to produce a satisfactory result. Composers and improvising musicians plow this field constantly. How do you rely on what you know, yet at the same time turn your back on it and strike in a new direction? Well, much of art relies solely on nostalgia—certainly, large swaths of contemporary music rely on it.
Untangling that ramble is for another time, except I’ll leave it here that considering and probing the symbol on as many levels as possible is the soul of living and the soul of living art. Put some muscle into it. Drag that Christmas tree into the house. I regret that I couldn’t help the blessed Mrs. Smith this year on that score, so I’ve got some work to do.
Here is an account of another Christmas tree adventure, the mise en place being North Broad Street. Many of the elements of the Christmas spirit come back to me through this little story. Nostalgia isn’t a bad thing, especially if it kickstarts a new spirit.
This was first published in Broad Street Review. I hope you enjoy.