Our Christmas tree, rather smallish and completely unimpressive this year, stands as a reminder of many things. First of all, it’s green. A kind of middle green not too forest-y for the rest of the trees who might think it pretentious and showy. But, not that insipid, noncommittal green that might cause others to look down on the poor bugger. Second, it’s delightfully imperfect…like the place it now calls home. Like the occupants of said home. Also, it is a daily reminder of the fact we are alive, but imperfectly so. It is transient, clinging tenaciously to its quickly waning life. From time to time, nutrients must be found from within when not forthcoming elsewhere. It looks rather forlorn in its present state; shoddily adorned, incomplete, perhaps even a little awkward.

But we totally love it. Why?

We are often too busy this time of year to properly Christmas-ify our house, let alone the poor tree. Like our sad, little tree, in our lowest state of being we retain so much of our original beauty, our verdant smell so pungently alive, our prickliness that tells the world not to get too close too quickly and to treat us with tenderness; our delightfully obvious imperfection. All of it becomes a unified, shining mess of perfect wonder under the labors of loving decorators. Upon its branches are things old and new, classy and kitschy, profound and facile.

Then, step back a minute. Breath it all in. Let this sorry little wonder be ample evidence of loving hands eager to participate in the process of making something so simple and unadorned into something still simple, but also beautiful, whole, communal…perfectly imperfect.