Living each day much muchier
Tradition is a guide and not a jailer.
W. Somerset Maugham
A celtic harp plays the Christ Child Lullaby. I lay all the branches, colour by colour on the floor.
Samson jumps into the empty Christmas tree box, his cardboard domain.
Small lights sparkle. It’s my birthday.
For as long as I can remember, the tree goes up on December 1. It’s tradition. Every year, I’m 10 years old, decorating and singing.
We speak poorly of tradition in our culture. We pride ourselves on breaking it, forging new paths and thinking for ourselves. Except, families, cultures and nations are built on them.
Some traditions are dear to our hearts and observing them is an act of joy. You nod to the passing of time.
Each year is a little different, a little the same.
When balmy days smell of cut grass and barbeques; when cracking storms barrel across the skies; when long twilights call for beer on the back deck, it’s summer, it’s my birthday, it’s Christmas.
All three of them are awesome traditions.
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