tra·di·tion/trəˈdiSHən/
- The transmission of customs or beliefs from generation to generation, or the fact of being passed on in this way.
- A long-established custom or belief that has been passed on in this way.
One of the beautiful things about blogging is the connections we make as we read the stories of others lives and see a part of ourselves. This “keeping it real” attitude (even if it’s totally slightly exaggerated) is what makes us feel a bit more comfortable sharing parts of our own lives – those pieces that we might have otherwise been too scared to share.
The ugly underbelly…
And since I began blogging, over 8 yrs ago, I’ve prided myself on writing authentically and putting myself out there.
Pride.
Maybe that is the key word to this post.
We all have it, to some extent, don’t we; despite being told it can be our downfall. (and why does that never seem to play out fairly across the board??)
My point? This is one of those stories.
I had big hopes for last Christmas.
Hopes.
Maybe that is the key word…
Or maybe it is just when hopes and pride collide.
I’m not sure which has the potential to cause the most pain in our lives.
To be clear, I’m not talking about the kind of hope that helps keep you from dying in a pit. Or the sort that allows you to keep your sanity in the midst of unthinkable situations.
I’m talking about the sort of hope that sends you into a frenzy of high expectations and elevated desires. The desire for perfection.
It was that hidden desire for perfection and that sense of pride that fills me when I succeed, that nearly turned last Christmas into a big fat, freakin’ failure.
We didn’t want our Christmas to be like everyone else’s. We wanted it to look different. We wanted it to be intentional and mean something more than it has in the past. So we stripped it down. Way down.
As noble as this sounds, in the end, I panicked and got wrapped up in making the imperfect appear “perfect” by the world’s standards. Rather than let it be and trusting my gut, I still worried what others would think, or worse, what I would think December 26th.
So Christmas eve, I fell asleep on the couch, staring at our tree which was covered completely with homemade ornaments.
Heavy-hearted, trying not to cry, I’d convinced myself that it wasn’t perfectly imperfect. I felt like a failure before it had even come to be.
So worried and convinced, was I, that the children would hate their new Christmas, that I nearly solidified that reality for them.
It was our first Christmas as a family, and I was trying to create traditions that mattered before we even knew what would matter.
But traditions should come from realizing the things that have value and meaning. Not something forced upon us.
Traditions are those unexpected things that we realize set the tone and create a feeling of bonding and connectedness.
Sometimes we get it horribly wrong. Sometimes we nail it.
But we never know until we try.
In the end, all of my worries and fear gained me nothing but a bad night’s sleep. It was a wonderful, beautiful day. The children were the sweetest, most grateful children you could imagine. Their hearts are so sweet and focused right where they need to be.
I have so much to learn from them.
