The festive season magnifies everything. If you are happy, you become euphoric. If you are lonely, you become desolate. If you are grieving, the carols cut like glass.
There is a peculiar shift in the air that no weather app can measure. One morning, you wake up to the usual grey of November or the sticky heat of July (depending on your hemisphere), and yet something is different. The coffee tastes the same. The commute is still a slog. But the frequency has changed.
December 26th (or the day after your main celebration) arrives with the particular flatness of a popped balloon. The tinsel looks suddenly sad. The leftover ham haunts the fridge. There is a credit card bill waiting in your inbox. festive season
By J. Harper
In the northern hemisphere, it is the scent of cinnamon and clove battling the smell of wet wool coats. In the south, it is the sound of corks popping from bottles of crisp Sauvignon Blanc under a setting summer sun. Whether you celebrate Diwali, Hanukkah, Christmas, Kwanzaa, the Winter Solstice, or simply the joy of a long weekend, the festive season is a universal paradox: it is the most exhausting and the most euphoric four weeks of the calendar. What makes this season magical is not the decorations, but the permission it grants us. For eleven months of the year, we are pragmatic creatures. We budget. We diet. We say “I’m too busy.” The festive season magnifies everything
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In a world that grows more digital and distant by the minute, the festive season remains stubbornly physical. You cannot DM a hug. You cannot Zoom the smell of a pine tree. You cannot algorithmic your way into a spontaneous kitchen dance party while washing champagne glasses at midnight. Let us speak of the table. Whether it is a six-foot mahogany antique or a wobbling IKEA leaf with a stain on the corner, the festive table is the true altar of the season. If you are grieving, the carols cut like glass
You laughed until your ribs hurt. You danced badly. You ate the cake. You held someone’s hand a little too long.