Burn Every Candle

"Are you sure you want to put out ALL the Christmas decorations this year?" said my husband.

"All nine Rubbermaid bins full? " (Yes, NINE.)

"Uh, yeah, I've been thinking I should pare it down a bit this year," I say. "Pare it down as in just throw some of it away."

"Like what?" he says.

"Like these, " I say. "Like these three candles,"  indicating three identical cellophane wrapped candles shaped like Christmas trees. "They have never even come out of their wrappers.  Just put them in the trash."

"I kind of like them," he says.

"Okay. But this year I am going to actually burn them. Along with all the other candles."

"Like these?" he says, pulling out a box of sparkly red poinsettia candles designed to float on water.

"Yes, those will be burned as well."

"What will the kids say?" he says.

"They will say nothing. They got those candles 15 years ago."

"Little stocking gifts?" he asks, referring to the 24 tiny stockings that were religiously filled with tiny gifts for our three kids for more than 20 years.

"Yep."  Like the three candles, our Christmas boxes are filled with things in threes. Matching ornaments, toys, puppets, plates, mugs and everything Christmas-themed. Things I always thought they would take with them when they moved out. Yet here they are.

As we contemplate a move, I wonder if I will have room for nine Rubbermaid containers of ornaments. I wonder if I should practice "Swedish Death Cleaning" as some of my friends have. Getting rid of all the nonessentials so my kids don't need to deal with all that stuff when I go. And then I also think of an acquaintance of my mom's, a lady who lived 15 years in the same house without unpacking her wedding china, because she was sure she and her husband were going to move. That's not me. I want a life that explodes with colour. I want a home that is full.

So, the candles and the decorations and the Christmas tree ornaments all came out this year. This year our bushy local wild spruce, despite it's crooked trunk and bare spots, was robust enough to bear every single one of our dozens of ornaments. Yes, sure, we had to saw off the top to fit it in the house, but there was room, as always, for the fragile Christmas angel my paternal grandmother made for my maternal grandmother, the brittle organza dress covered in peeling paper stars. My husband is careful not to put it too close to the old-school lights. Our bookshelf held the nativity scene from the Philippines, given to us by my parents after one of their Ten Thousand Villages craft fairs. The sideboard bore the runner that took me years to embroider and the funky wise men we bought early in our marriage. The upstairs mantle covered in the numerous nutcrackers the kids (and then I) gave my husband over the years, minus the 3 foot high one that I can't find in the garage. The basement mantle held the Lemax village that now falls to my husband to set up, instead of my middle child who used to painstakingly set up the tiny scenes of characters. My new son-in-law asked how long it takes us to decorate the house for Christmas. Many days. Many days until we light the lights and burn the candles.

And now it's the Epiphany. The kids have all gone home. This is the day it all gets taken down. I've read it's an ancient tradition, incorporating the belief that the tree spirits contained in the boughs and branches and holly and ivy must be released back to nature after the Christmas season ends to guarantee good crops for the coming year. Those who abide by this tradition hold that if you fail to remove your Christmas decorations by this date, they must remain untouched until Candlemas, a day upon which all candles to be used in the upcoming year are blessed. 

It seems a bit crazy to have nine boxes of decorations. It seems ridiculous to spend days setting them out each year just to take them down again a few weeks later. Crazy to need space to store things that are packed away for so much time. But in another way it feels like the house waits all year for that special burst of colour and light. For the days filled with friends and family. The experimental cocktails served at the mood-lit bar. The cookies made once a year, set out on my mom's tiered cookie stand. The coming and going. Visitors from near and far. The good dishes laid out on the good tablecloth. Old favourites like my mom's parsnip tomato casserole and Sarah's sweet potatoes with pecans, and new ones like Dave's potatoes roasted in goose fat, rosemary and garlic. Mom's "good dessert". 

And now, the house waits. 

I wait.

Until I burn every candle.

How blessed I am to have such things to wait for.