If you were to peep through my living room window right now (which I sincerely hope you don’t, because that would be creepy), you might deduce that I quite like Christmas. Our tree went up yesterday and underneath it are bags full of wrapped and beribboned presents. Every time I see it, it fair makes my heart sing with pleasure.
Now, I’m going to get a bit navel gaze-y for a minute here, so you might want to skip forward a bit…
I was told quite recently, by someone once close to me, that the things that are important to me are “just materialistic crap” (another story, not to be told here). This is the kind of barb that can leave a sore; more than once during my Christmas preparations I’ve paused to question the ‘rightness’ of the degree of pleasure that I’m getting from buying things for people and spending money on non-essentials to make my home feel cosy and pretty.
I find myself to be absolutely ok with it!