Some of you may remember this story from a few years ago. Thought I would dust if off and post it here:
My sister gave me the ceramic Christmas tree the year I moved out of my parent’s house. She gave it to me in the summer, and I stored it in its box until December when I celebrated my first Christmas in my own home. I was 19. Six years later the tree moved with me from Albuquerque to Olympia, Washington, from a condominium to a duplex, then to a house, and finally to the farm-lette where I live now almost 40 years later.
It is a large tree for its kind, solid dark-green, lit from within by a long tubular bulb that ignites little pointed prisms of colored plastic. My step-daughter likes to rearrange the points to make patterns out of the colors.
For years the tree stood on my bedroom dresser, its muted glow reminiscent of the Santa and Snowman bubble lamps that used to light up the bedroom I shared as a child with my older sisters. I would leave the tree lit all night, comforted by its familiar outline. After the holidays were over, the tree went back in its box for another year. January nights were dark and cold by comparison.
One year I pulled the tree from its box into a world soon to be fragmented by my divorce. The pain and anger of my husband annihilated everything about Christmas that year, except for the soothing light of my ceramic tree. I put it up on the dresser and cried myself to sleep most nights wondering what would become of us.
For years the tree stood on my bedroom dresser, its muted glow reminiscent of the Santa and Snowman bubble lamps that used to light up the bedroom I shared as a child with my older sisters. I would leave the tree lit all night, comforted by its familiar outline. After the holidays were over, the tree went back in its box for another year. January nights were dark and cold by comparison.
One year I pulled the tree from its box into a world soon to be fragmented by my divorce. The pain and anger of my husband annihilated everything about Christmas that year, except for the soothing light of my ceramic tree. I put it up on the dresser and cried myself to sleep most nights wondering what would become of us.
On New Year’s Day, I nestled the tree down into its cardboard box, packing it with the original crumpled sheets of newspapers from 1977. And I wondered out loud, “What will my life be like the next time I unpack you?” I took a scrap piece of paper and wrote myself a note: “I hope that the next time I see you I am joyful, authentic, independent, and aware.” I folded the paper, put it in the box and taped it shut.
The year passed. My husband moved out, we divorced, I found a new job, new friends, a new life. The day after Thanksgiving, I hauled the box in from the garage and unpacked the ceramic tree. There I found my note, forgotten in the turmoil of the intervening months. And I smiled, because I was joyful, authentic, independent, and aware.
I had a Christmas gathering of girlfriends at my house that year. I shared with them the story of “the magic Christmas tree box.” And I gave them little slips of paper on which to write their own wishes for the coming year. Not wishes for material things, but aspirations that they could bring about for themselves by connecting with their hearts’ desires. We folded the papers and sealed them with Christmas labels, and I put them in an envelope. After New Year’s, I slipped the envelope in the box and packed up the tree.
The following year we gathered again and I handed out the little notes to each friend. Privately we read our aspirations for our lives and pondered what had transpired, which often wasn't quite what we expected. And once again we wrote ourselves messages and sealed them away in the magic box until the next year. We continued the tradition for several years. If a friend moved away, I mailed her wish to her in a Christmas card.
A few years later, I remarried. The ceramic tree found a new place in the house where I now live with my husband and two step-children. The Christmas gatherings of girlfriends ended. And I introduced my new family to the magic Christmas tree box. I tried to explain to the kids how the magic works, that it isn’t like sending a letter to Santa Claus. That it has more to do with believing something about yourself and creating the intention to experience that belief. It isn’t a prayer--it’s an expression of faith that you already possess the qualities you need to achieve your dream. Like Dorothy, you already have the ruby slippers—you just have to decide it’s time to go home.
In recent years, I discovered the wisdom of horses, became a certified life coach, and started my own business. With my clients, I co-create a relationship that allows both of us to rediscover and embrace our unique gifts and use them to experience life with joy and wonder. And every year when I open the box and unpack the ceramic tree, I feel the magic and power of aspiration, intention, and Christmas wishes.
I hope this story inspires you to start your own tradition of creating a Christmas wish, finding a magical place to store it, and trusting that next year you will see the results of your intention. Remember: Allow for the possibility that things are not what they seem.
Donna
I hope this story inspires you to start your own tradition of creating a Christmas wish, finding a magical place to store it, and trusting that next year you will see the results of your intention. Remember: Allow for the possibility that things are not what they seem.
Donna
Merry Christmas to all my family and friends.
May you all experience love and joy this season and always.
May you all experience love and joy this season and always.
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