I’m sitting here surrounded by boxes of Christmas cards, a red pen, and my address book. The house is rich with luscious scents; rosemary-infused pot roast in the oven, Blackstrap molasses cookies cooling on the counter, a fire in the hearth and the crisp pine scent of recently decorated wreaths.
The inevitable loop of Christmas music churns away softly in the background. It’s one of those gray-bright December days in New England when the sun never breaks through but the soft dusting of snow reflects back every available beam of light.
Yes, I am quite aware of the fact that I repeatedly refer to this as Christmas. I’m not going to apologize. I grew up in a time when this was Christmas, period. Hanukkah was always Chanukah, sometimes with two “Ks,” but it was not a major influence in my life. And as to Kwanzaa and Las Posadas? I’m embarrassed to say I know more about how Ramadan is celebrated. So I will send Christmas cards and I will listen to Christmas music – it’s just who I am.
With the death of Nelson Mandela, the world has managed to come together and collectively celebrate a man of peace. I would love to be viewing this tribute from a dozen different countries and cultures. Vicariously, I read posts from bloggers in South Africa, the UK and others. It reminds me that what is said and thought here in America is only one viewpoint. We can all only be expected to react from our personal experiences.
I feel the same way about this time of year. To me, it can only be the non-politically correct Christmas Season. So to try to make sense of this season, I am filling up my senses with scents.