It was an East Coast Christmas day in New York, but the weather was mild - too mild. The sun was shining, the air smelled like spring, and Marlene and I ventured outdoors wearing only sweaters for warmth. It didn't seem at all like Christmas. We yearned for the snap of snow under foot and the small puffs of frosty air as it met the heat of caroling mouths. We probably wanted sleigh bells, too, and a pond for skating. Our striped woolen scarves would fly behind like streamers as we glided, and we would return flushed and happy to a mom who served hot chocolate. What we wanted, really, was joy within our troubled house, and a sense of celebration.

In our family, holidays were sad and disfigured, like broken toys. We always felt that something magical was supposed to happen, but never did. There would invariably be a fight or tears or some mighty attempt at festivity that would go awry and leave us pathetically in its wake. Marlene and I used to say we lived in the chalk garden, where nothing could grow. And so, on this balmy Christmas afternoon, we sat outside together in the backyard, behind the garage, with a transistor radio, trying hard to feel the spirit of the season.

The only evidence of Christmas was the music on the radio. Every station we tuned into was playing the Twelve Days of Christmas, which struck us as utterly hilarious. Perhaps there was a sense of absurdity and cynicism in our laughter, but it's doubtful -- neither of us knew a thing about absurdity or cynicism, and we had no inclination to reject the fantasies that our culture fed us. Instead, we were drawn to their sparkle like deer to a stream, but they always seemed beyond our reach. So we turned the radio dial, giggling and giddy, cracking up at every mention of partridges in pear trees, forgetting about the house of strife in back of us, and laughing, finally, with the total abandon known only to children.

In time, I just felt alienated during holiday seasons, even pressured and resentful. I once saw a cartoon that expressed it rather well. A man sits at the counter in some greasy diner and asks, "What's the Christmas Special?" The weary-looking waitress replies, "It's just like the Sunday Special, only more depressing." I completely agreed; it was depressing. I ignored most holidays and perceived Christmas in particular as an annual set of unquenchable expectations. I wasn't exactly a Scrooge. I simply chose to overlook the fluctuations and implicit demands of the calendar. Because I lacked traditions, I did not know how to build them, nor did I recognize their importance.

Then I had my daughter, and the cycle began again. There is nothing like a small newcomer to revive the old yearnings and motivate the orchestration of festivity. I found myself, in the manner of parents since time began, trying to create for Miranda the happy kind of history that I had missed. We carried her through neighborhood streets to see the Christmas lights. We took her to the Nutcracker every year, and baked cookies for our friends. Together we chose and decorated a real Christmas tree, and wrapped piles of presents as we listened to Handel's Messiah. It was a grand confection of pagan and religious ingredients, but I like to think the underlying message was a good one.

Miranda became a champion of celebration, ungoverned by customary dates. She often proclaimed her own reasons to celebrate and designed her own ways to do so. One April 23rd became known as The Day Daddy Is Coming Back from Washington. She made welcome home decorations for the door, set the table in her own crazy quilt fashion, and generally spread around a kind of innocent joy and unrestrained enthusiasm so pure and magnificent that it bowled me over. I began to see that ceremonies, rituals and celebrations lend to the chaotic prose of life the pause between rambling paragraphs; the punctuation that puts sense into the flow of words; the intermittent footnote and commentary, even the excuse for a moment's amnesia after the period. I learned that there is something healthy and necessary in all of that.

Taking my cue from my daughter, I tried to slow down and observe even the unofficial reasons to celebrate. While I could never recapture the exuberance of a little girl, I did discover that I had been missing a lot, and I've worked on this over the years. In particular, I try to say yes to experiences, even if they involve some inconvenience. Just last week, my friend Vickie and I accepted an invitation to make soap at the house of a feisty Cuban woman we know in Camarillo. We set forth with a "what the heck" kind of attitude, and never regretted a moment. We played salsa music, mixed dyes and fragrances, ate tamales, and talked ourselves silly. Somehow, when one approaches life more openly, the colors are brighter, the flavors more intense, the fellowship warmer. Certainly, this year, more than ever, we are all aware of the precious and ephemeral moments embedded in an ordinary day.

Meanwhile, many holidays have come and gone since that long ago December afternoon behind the garage. My dear Marlene died nearly two years ago, and I think of her every day, seeing so many things, as I often do, too late. I know now that in our shared laughter, my sister and I were washed with light and wholly enveloped in love. We must have shimmered like angels. This moment was the Christmas; I see it now. The love that encircled us was the magic that we wanted, and our laughter the celebration that we craved.

I didn't realize it then, but I don't want to miss any more of it.

- Cynthia Carbone Ward 2001