Words, Words, Words: Hibernation

Since I started my gift guide at the end of September, it’s probably a little obvious that I’m excited about the holidays. The truth of the matter is this: I haven’t looked forward to this time of year for a very long while. I thought that it might be the kind of magic that slowly evaporated as I got older. But as the days go by, as the packages of Christmas gifts we’ve purchased arrive, I’m coming to the realization that what I thought was gone inside of me was really just dormant. Hibernating like an old bear.

The holiday magic has never disappeared for my dad, who loves Christmas more than anyone I know despite living his whole life in a place that never sees snow. Now that Halloween is over, he’ll begin pulling his Department 56 houses from the dusty attic space in the garage. If any of the neighbors put their lights up before he does, they chide him about it. By the time we get home in a couple of weeks, the CD player will be stocked with Christmas albums. Several by Johnny Mathis. (Did you even know there were that many carols?)

When we were younger, my sister and I devised plans for how to rid the house of those albums. Every year, my parents have a Christmas party with our family friends. One year, my parents asked each guest to bring a white elephant gift. On the sly, Julie and I wrapped up one of the Johnny Mathis holiday albums and put it in the pile.

“Hey!” my dad exclaimed when one of the guests opened it. “How’d that get in there?!”

“It was a duplicate!” we shouted in our own defense. “You had two!”

Of course, there will be plenty of Johnny Mathis when we visit in two weeks. And even that’s okay with me now that my Christmas spirit is back. Through the past decade, despite my lethargy and inability to be sufficiently enthusiastic about them, my dad has kept up our Christmas traditions.

Every year, he and I watch the Muppet Christmas Carol (last year we did it with my nephew, who turned to my dad twenty minutes in and said, “Is it almost over?”). He puts up colorful lights so that it looks like we’re approaching a gingerbread house as we drive up to their cul-de-sac. He does it for my sister, brother-in-law, and me, as much as he does it for my niece and nephew. And this year, especially, he’s doing it for James as well.

There’s a congruence between the fact that this past year has brought me a kind of permanence, and the comfort that these traditions bring at the end of each year. James, my work, our home, our friends — these are the simple things that I wasn’t sure of a year ago, which I am very sure of now, in the same way that I’ve never had to wonder about the way we’ll celebrate the holidays at home. These are the gifts I’ve been given.

{ Photo Credit }

Aloha Spirit

In just three weeks, we’re heading back to Hawaii to visit my family. James likes to say, “Yeahhh, we’re fulfilling our familial duties,” in a tone filled with fake dread because he’s really excited about his first trip to my home state. Over the years, there have definitely been times in which I’ve wished that “home” wasn’t so far away. In graduate school, when everyone flew a few hours or drove home for the holidays, I was preparing for a day of being stuffed into a tiny airplane seat to cross the entire continent and an ocean. But no one feels sorry for you when you’re from Hawaii, nor should they. My birthplace has been a blessing to me my entire life, not just because of its beauty and great weather, but because of the intersection of cultures that I grew up within and because, no matter where I am, the fact that I’m from Hawaii is a doorway to conversation with the unlikeliest of people.

When we came back from Vermont last week, I realized that I was friendlier than I had been in the months prior. At the hotel, everyone we passed smiled and said hello. It was such a simple thing, but it opened up something inside me, and when a woman pushed her cart into me at the grocery store on Monday, I found myself laughing and chatting with her for a minute rather than awkwardly huffing and darting away down the bread aisle. That thing that happened — that lighting up and warmth — that’s what we call the spirit of aloha. Funny to have found it in Vermont.

I can’t wait to see my parents, with whom we’ll go to the farmer’s market before the sun is even up to buy papayas and Manoa lettuce and guava jam so fresh that the jars are warm. And then there’s my niece, who may still be wearing her Thor costume from Halloween, and my nephew, who will tell us all about the new games he’s playing (James is very excited for that part). We’ll chow down with my sister and her husband, listen to lots of island music, and lie on the beach long enough that in the depths of winter we’ll remember what sun on bare skin feels like.

A large part of why Massachusetts feels like home to me is because James has shown me all the things he loves about it. We never needed to go on the Freedom Trail together or on the Salem witch tour for me to fall in love with the things that make this place so completely individual. In the same way, the Hawaii he sees won’t be within the confines of the Waikiki strip. My Hawaii is my family, my friends, the rainforest, all those foods I dream about when I’m out here, sandy floored shops on the North Shore, and afternoon rainbows arching over the Ko’olau mountain range. It doesn’t have a thing to do with hula dancers or tiki torches or, really, roasted pigs. I’m determined to show James the real Hawaii.

But it is his first time. So just this once, we’re going to a luau. How could I say no? “No” isn’t a word that exists within the language of aloha.

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