Wie treu sind deine Blätter

Paula requested a picture.

As usual the thing is about twice as tall as me. Every year I discover how much stronger my sons have become. Not so long ago I did pretty much all the work of hauling it and setting it up, with assistance that could best be described as willing. Recent years it has almost gone up by itself. Once up, I string the lights, as that takes a combination of tactics, long arms and acrophilia that haven't yet entirely passed along. Then the Miz takes over and the decorating happens.

Why don't I help decorate it? There is no certain answer. I don't mean to leave that part be, but I have increasingly complex reactions to the Christmas season and the Miz has learned not to wait for me to gear up for it. I don't really get into Christmas until a few days beforehand -- yeah, like now. Until then, I am full of emotions, most of them variants of depression, as well as a weave of procrastination and preoccupation that accomplishes nothing helpful, not to mention my increasing disdain for the religion of consumption that is this particular festival's most visible hallmark. But a time comes when all that begins to pass, and the beauty of the tree, its needles green and true, helped along by some seasonal music by Buxtehude, soaks into my soul, along with a sort of peace, and it all finally begins to make a little sense.