Christmas is a butterfly unfolding From winter’s chrysalis. Out of the black And white December harshness flash colors, Soft fragilities of wings. Icy streets Shine red and green and gold. Scarlet and pink Poinsettias glow by hearths. Angels abound. Christmas is a butterfly unfolding From the cold human heart. Out of the bleak Preoccupation with our private woes And wants, out of the tedium of routines, There springs the wish to give and to forgive. Love once again believes and hopes all things. That Christmas comes each year is proof enough: Miracles of birth and rebirth still occur.
From “The Christmas Life” by Wendy Cope in Christmas Poems, chosen by Gaby Morgan:
Bring in a tree, a young Norwegian spruce, Bring hyacinths that rooted in the cold. Bring winter jasmine as its buds unfold — Bring the Christmas life into this house.
Bring red and green and gold, bring things that shine, Bring candlesticks and music, food and wine. Bring in your memories of Christmas past. Bring in your tears for all that you have lost.
Bring in the shepherd boy, the ox and ass, Bring in the stillness of an icy night, Bring in a birth, of hope and love and light. Bring the Christmas life into this house.
“Peter had spent all afternoon searching and searching for the perfect present for his mum and dad. Something that would stop them quarrelling for just five minutes. Something that would make Christmas the way it used to be, with smiles and songs and happiness in every corner of the house….
“But all the searching had been for nothing. Peter didn’t have that much money to begin with and all the things he could afford, he didn’t want. All the gifts he could afford looked so cheap and tacky that Peter knew they would fall apart about ten seconds after they were handled. What was he going to do? He had to buy something and time was running out….
“Then he caught sight of it out of the corner of his eye. The medium-sized sign above the door said ‘The Christmas Shop’ in spidery writing. The small shop window was framed with silver and gold tinsel and a scattering of glitter like mini stars. At the bottom of the window, fake snow had been sprayed. It looked so much like the real thing that had it been outside the window instead of inside, Peter would’ve been sure it was real snow. A single Christmas tree laden with fairy lights and baubles and yet more tinsel stood proudly in the exact centre of the window….
“He wondered why he’d never seen it before…. Peter looked up and down the street. The few other shops in the same row as the Christmas Shop were all boarded up. Unexpectedly, the shop door opened. A tall portly man with a white beard and a merry twinkle in his eyes stood in the doorway….”
Star over all Eye of the night Stand on my tree Magical sight Green under frost Green under snow Green under tinsel Glitter and glow Appled with baubles Silver and gold Spangled with fire Warm over cold.
“On the hill-side beyond the shapelessly-diffused town, and in the quiet keeping of the trees that gird the village-steeple, remembrances are cut in stone, planted in common flowers; growing in grass, entwined with lowly brambles around many a mound of earth. In town and village, there are doors and windows closed against the weather, there are flaming logs heaped high, there are joyful faces, there is healthy music of voices….
“Be all ungentleness and harm excluded from the temples of the Household Gods, but be those remembrances admitted with tender encouragement! They are of the time and all its comforting and peaceful reassurances; and of the history that reunited even upon earth the living and the dead; and of the broad beneficence and goodness that too many men have tried to tear to narrow shreds.”
“Early December saw the first of the great blizzards of that year. The wind howling down out of the Canadian wilds a few hundred miles to the north had screamed over frozen Lake Michigan and hit Hohman, laying on the town great drifts of snow and long, story-high icicles, and subzero temperatures where the air cracked and sang. Streetcar wires creaked under caked ice and kids plodded to school through forty-five-mile-an-hour gales, tilting forward like tiny furred radiator ornaments, moving stiffly over the barren, clattering ground.
“Preparing to go to school was about like getting ready for extended Deep-Sea Diving. Longjohns, corduroy knickers, checkered flannel Lumberjack shirt, four sweaters, fleece-lined leatherette sheepskin coat, helmet, goggles, mittens with leatherette gauntlets and a large red star with an Indian Chief’s face in the middle, three pair of sox, high-tops, overshoes, and a sixteen-foot scarf wound spirally from left to right until only the faint glint of two eyes peering out of a mound of moving clothing told you that a kid was in the neighborhood….
“Downtown Hohman was prepared for its yearly bacchanalia of peace on earth and good will to men. Across Hohman Avenue and State Street, the gloomy main thoroughfares — drifted with snow that had lain for months and would remain until well into Spring, ice encrusted, frozen drifts along the curbs — were strung strands of green and red Christmas bulbs, and banners that snapped and cracked in the gale. From the streetlights hung plastic ivy wreaths surrounding three-dimensional Santa Claus faces.”
Ho! Ho! Hello!
If you decorate for the holidays, you’ve likely had this experience: After extracting the packed-up boxes of Christmas globbles from the attic or closet you squoze them into ten or eleven months ago, you begin to open them and exclaim, over and over again: “Oh, I forgot about THESE!” In case you didn’t know, this is part of the job assigned by the universe to Christmas decorations: to dim your off-season memory so many things you come across the following year seem new, and delightful, once again.
Something similar happens when I start thinking about the “Days to Christmas” series of posts I first started six years ago, originally as a way of learning more about photography by experimenting with the colors and lights of the Christmas season. Last year, I explained the project in some detail; see Ten Days to Christmas: Peace from 2023 if you’d like to read more about it and how each year I would add some new whatnot to my photography kit just to explore its use it with my Christmas project.
This year, I didn’t buy anything new specifically to shoot for Christmas; but imagine my surprise to discover how useful a variable neutral density filter (that I purchased to control bright sunlight when photographing flowers outdoors) could be when photographing Christmas decorations. You see, I often add supplemental lighting with these Christmas scenes, but that lighting also brightens up backgrounds too much and ruins the mood. With a variable ND filter, though, I can reduce the overall lighting as much as I want then expose the image accordingly; and the actual effect is to keep most of the light I need on the subject but darken the background and create that little sense of Christmas mystery. The photos in this post — the first three inspired by the peaceful but “shapelessly-diffused town” described by Dickens above — were taken with that technique, which enabled me to keep the subject bright and well-focused with accurate colors, while keeping the backgrounds soft and shadowy.
Here we are on the last day of November (how did THAT happen?), right on the cusp of starting the month of curiosities and baubles, clouds of glitter, and the lights and candles we use to ward off winter darkness. For my part, I’ve engaged the services of my decorating assistant — The Small Dog — who supervised the work yesterday as I untangled the first of two strings of 900 (three sets of 300 each) lights and began shoving them into the Christmas tree. You can just barely see his head peaking around the wall in the first image, but the more I swore at the lights to encourage them to straighten out, the more interested he got!
From “Sensory” by Marian Harmon in The Best Poems of the 90s, edited by Caroline Sullivan and Cynthia Stevens:
Eyes to photo flights of hummingbirds As television lions mate, Vesuvius explodes. Eyes to read the shape of breasts that swell And turn to milk for one as yet unborn.
Tongues to taste new kernel corn The bite of dill, The sweet bright mouth of love.
Ears to hear the measured paragraphs of Bach The stamping of the tiny hooves of deer. Unfinished words that slither into nibbled cries.
Nose that knows delight in spring verbena, Summer phlox and autumn mums, The perfumed sweat that rises with my touch.
Yet all those wonders fade, become as garden weeds, Or dust on lamps When you no longer share The scents, the sounds, the tastes, The beating of my wings.
Hello!
This is the second of three posts with photographs of Persian (or Painted) Daisies (Tanacetum coccineum) and mums (Chrysanthemum zawadzkii) — all in shades of pink, starting with saturated blends of pink, purple, and magenta followed by those that are more purely pink. The first post — where I also wrote about the significance of mums and daisies at Victorian garden cemeteries — is Pink Daisies, Pink Mums (1 of 3).
