Open Writing

I have an obsession with wrapping paper, especially Christmas paper, because you need so much of it. I resent buying it, almost as much as I resent paying for car parks, and go out of my way to avoid them. I do my stock-up of wrapping at the opening of the parcels on Christmas day. While everyone else is busy scanning the contents of parcels, I’m there scooping up the layers, smoothing them out and folding them away in my pile. As long as the paper is the usual stuff, not too exquisite, people don’t seem to remember from one year to the next, that I’m actually returning theirs.

I tried an experiment this year. I didn't get presents at all for my own grandchildren knowing they had an enormous pile already, and watched to see if anyone noticed; they didn't. Does this sound miserly? I'll make it up in other ways, but really, the exercise of opening a mountain of presents, (although they like to tear the paper—I wince at this) had become mechanical, even to the children, perhaps especially to the children. And the grownups reach over to stop child X grabbing child Y’s present, voices thick with concern, 'O no, dear, that's Jamie's, that's from us.'

Why should I play into the insidious erosion of the spirit of this most wonderful festival of Christmas, by pandering to a common marketing mentality?

So much for the paper and the presents. Now to family gatherings, eagerly looked forward to by some, but alas, dreaded by others. There is a line of discontent surfacing, when faced with the logistics of organising the Christmas gathering, questioning the value of having a get-together at all at this time of the year.

It goes 'Why bother when some rellies don’t see each other for the whole year or longer? And if they do, half of them don't get on; the adults who've married in don’t always gel with their brothers and sisters in-law, and there's a good sprinkling of weird behaviour; the catering is too much trouble; the weather may be uncomfortable.' The list of negatives goes on—the same old dilemmas: 'hot or cold?; shall we bother with a fruit cake—everyone's too full, they don't eat it anymore, fruit cake's for the army.' I love my piece of fruit cake for afternoon tea, no matter how full I am.

Every year there are tensions, little scenarios, different each time. What are your favourites—the ones that keep cropping up like bad pennies? The rellie who counts every prawn you take, the one who tries to put an extra cup of your brandy in the custard? Disagreements surface, old grudges may be raked up—it's all part of the deal. Singles and people who live alone—take heart; your lot may be envied more than you imagine.

Interestingly, if you ask young ones, especially those in their twenties and thirties, if they want the gathering, in spite of the objections listed above, they vote for it. And they turn up! There is a need for this 'blood' connection, perhaps just because it is infrequent. Otherwise, when do they get to see their wider family—with rising costs, they're often excluded from weddings. Do they wait for a funeral?

Christmas is locked into the psyche of the GP (general public) as a family time—for better or worse. At no other time of the year will it be as easy for people to take off a few days from work and make the effort. So before we toss in the whole show and throw the baby out with the bathwater (or stuff our plaster nativity sets complete with Christ child and the manger, in a musty corner of the house or shed) let us look at that crib and the notion of the child in it, which is at the heart of Christmas.

That baby symbolises love and sacrifice, a special sort of love—unconditional. The sort a mother gives to her child regardless of its attributes. The sort that God offers to His family of all nations regardless of their colour, status, wealth and other attributes, even their worthiness—unconditional.

You, reader, will say I shouldn't assume the belief in God, but even if you don't share this belief, you will surely have come across the need for, and the existence of, a love which has nothing to do with earning or deserving. The sort that we, if we're to have any sort of family network, or community cohesion, need to extend to all people, the conventional and the unconventional, the rational and the not so rational, the cooperative and the obstreperous, the lovely and the unlovely. The sort of love that doesn't have to be earned and that transcends all other love. Let's hang on in there for next Christmas. And thanks for the wrapping—it was a bumper crop this year.

© Ros Schulz