The Light

Already the light has changed.

Before there is even time to put away the garlands of dried cranberries woven with white lights or to set the Christmas tree on the curb; before the holiday pop-up books are packed away, long before the Christmas cactus has finished its seasonal burst of blooms;  before the twinkling icicle lights are taken down and the blowup creatures visiting the neighbors’ yards have returned to their rightful homes in the garage; the light has changed.

I notice this every year. Throughout the month of December the coziness of the holiday season and the darkness of the approaching winter solstice seems to work in solidarity to present a holiday full of Norman Rockwell charm. We want frost on the windows and snow on the ground; we are cheerful about bundling up in layers of coats and mittens. It seems right that the weather should support hot chocolate and soup on the stove; we welcome the early twilights that force us inside for evenings of games and books by the fire. But suddenly, even before the new year has begun, the light has changed. The days are tangibly longer, the sunshine brighter, the air of seasonal sentiment and nostalgia evaporated.

There are certain houses in the neighborhood I keep my eye on during my December evening walks. I watch out for them because I know them to be particularly charming in their décor, or ridiculously outrageous, or just plain puzzling. Down the street is a house that is all of that, and more. It is a beautiful property on the corner of the Nob Hill shopping district, across the street from the historic Presbyterian church just off the infamous Route 66. The low-slung house is typical New Mexican adobe-style, with a lovely landscaped garden surrounding the house and an attached casita. I admire this house in all seasons, but right after Thanksgiving every year, the show begins. This house is decked. Lights everywhere, inside and out, covering every tree and shrub, draping the fountain, hanging down from the roof. And every year it is different. One year, it was a blue Christmas. Another year, red and white lights. Still another year it was all green. Last year it was colored, a rainbow of glowing bulbs dripping off every surface. It is charming, and ridiculously outrageous, and yet somehow manages to stay right inside the circle of good taste.

This year the house has been decorated with only white lights. I drove past it on my way to and from seven Nutcracker services. I drove past it on my way home from the pool in the early mornings (Yes, it’s lit then too!) for the entire month of December. I walked by it dozens of times, always stopping to inspect the magic. Even the casita ("Who lives there?" I wonder always. Lucky them.) is part of the holiday scheme of brightness and bling. I love it.

But this week I noticed something. The décor doesn’t disappear all at once at the end of the season. One day the little lighted trees are gone from the windows. The next the casita has been unwrapped of its glitter and glow. The snowflake lights on the fountain and trees are taken down. The strands hung around the front door are removed right around the twelfth day of Christmas. It’s a slow practice of un-decking the halls. On that corner of the universe, the light changes.

I’ve been thinking lately about light, and darkness, both literally and metaphorically. With Christmas falling in the middle of the week this year, the holiday felt off-set, a bit lopsided. Or maybe that’s just us. After an intense fall semester, the sudden halt of activities and expectations on Christmas morning is almost startling. We welcome the quiet, the temporary lull, but it’s unfamiliar. We find ourselves discombobulated a bit with the open time. We read, nap, have dinner with my parents and brother, take walks, see friends. I practice for an upcoming January program, host my annual Studio Holiday Tea on Boxing Day, clean out my desk and a few closets. We cook, stop in a neighborhood pub for a whiskey, finish addressing the holiday letters. The light changes.

It is such a simple message really: the light changes. Nothing stays the same. The holidays are boxed up and put away for another year. Time expands and contracts. The rhythms of our days settle and shift, both. We take up our practices, or start new ones with good lofty intentions. It’s ridiculously outrageous, really.

The light changes. The moon is a sliver in the sky. Another year stumbles forward. We begin again.