We’re All Babes in Toyland

I have a vague memory of my first grade Christmas pageant. The theme was loosely based on the Disney movie Babes in Toyland which was based on a 1903 operetta of the same name. I had the supporting role of a doll, donning my cabbage rose print party dress, a too-big, hand-me-down from my cousin, and a gigantic, green satin bow in my hair. I lay flopsy-mopsy on the stage until holiday magic and marching music brought me to life. I can still feel the exhilaration coursing through my veins as I curtsied to the sound of clapping and cheering. I was transfixed because the audience saw me as a delightful, dancing doll and not as the snot-nosed ragamuffin who couldn’t learn to read that I was. I basked in that transformation—the coming to life, the animation of who I might be.

If the holiday season does anything, it animates…sometimes with stress, sometimes with joy, sometimes with a little too much spiked eggnog. And that’s something I wonder about. How can I make this time of the year animated without animosity, childlike minus the selfishness, hopeful instead of stressful?

When I mentally playback my years on Earth, there are those monumental moments where I felt this exhilaration for life: my first kiss from the person I KNEW I would love forever, cradling my newborn close to my heart, turning the corner to view Michelangelo’s David glowing in the sunlight. But then there were the less obvious times that evoked awe, selflessness, and a feeling that all was right with me and the world.

I remember sipping wine at the edge of a vineyard outside Florence, Italy. The sun was setting on the golden dome of the Duomo when out of the vines with a guttural cluck strutted a brilliant cock pheasant. Every cell in my body vibrated…what beauty…what utter, nerve-striking, breath-taking beauty.

Then there was the time I cleaned my mother-in-law’s study. She was dying of breast cancer. Tanner, my son, was toddling about having recently learned to walk. When I went to wipe clean the mirrored door of the closet, my mother-in-law stopped me. “No, she said. “Don’t erase it. I want to look at it and remember.” Upon inspection, I had almost wiped away a prominent and sticky handprint left behind on the glass by my son.

And not so long ago, I was eating breakfast at a diner on a blustery, winter morning. I noticed a sad looking gentleman wearing a cap noting that he was a WWII veteran. A woman, I assume his wife, was berating him for something. The slump of this soldier’s shoulders and tears dribbling down his chin pierced my heart. Upon leaving, I paid his tab and asked the waitress to tell him that a stranger appreciated him for all that he had done.

I share these moments because they made me feel alive, and I am curious as to why. What is the common denominator? The miracles of nature? The glory of beauty created by human hands? Gratitude for what we take for granted such as a sticky but memorable handprint? Unconditional love? Kindness to a stranger? All these reasons played a part in my bliss, but perhaps they left such an indelible imprint because I was fully present. During all these occasions, I wasn’t dwelling on a memory or anxious about the future. I was deliciously and utterly in the moment.

So, during this season of hustle and bustle, when we are quick to gift baubles and tasty goodies, to ruminate on holidays past, and anxious about the to-do list, might I suggest that we plant our feet firmly in the present, gain footing, and open our hearts not only to family, friends, and neighbors, but to those with whom we disagree and to strangers hurting and dirty—someone like that ragamuffin girl with a snotty nose, who only needed a little applause, magic, and music to bring her to life.

(The photo above was taken the following summer when my hand-me-down party dress fit.)