Two things about this sentence didn’t work for me. The first was probably unusual. I didn’t miss Christmas because I hardly knew anyone who celebrated it or what it was all about. I lived in the Jewish end of town, thanks to restrictive covenants. Of course nobody thought of it as the Jewish end of town, but my school was almost all Jewish, since the many Catholic kids in the area crammed their oh so many baby boomer bodies into the local parish school. We didn’t know them. The Protestant kids had the chance to learn about being a minority. We were fascinated by the blue-lit aluminum tree-like shape that revolved in Jimmy’s living room. He got questions about his family’s unusual alternative observance. Where was he going to hear that again?

And yes a few families toyed with Chanukah bushes—also aluminum and also lit blue. I shopped the idea gingerly at my house and dropped it like a hot latke when my Mother erupted.

What Christmas did mean for me was a dressed-up, lunched-out trip downtown to see the Christmas decorations the Friday after Thanksgiving. There was nothing black about it, except the 4:30 sky on the L ride home.

The second fiction was more subtle and has gotten even more confusing. Chanukah was a refreshingly unreligious holiday in my observant home. We played intense games of dreidel, ate a lot of chocolate, lit candles, sang and exchanged socks and underwear, mostly. There were a few dreidels and stars hung in our apartment. It wasn’t dressed up like a Christmas competitor or a consolation prize. It was something most kids in the neighborhood did and, while I had a slightly more old-fashioned version of it than many, it was a serviceable small holiday.

Growing up eventually meant making some choices. I had boyfriends, a husband and lots of friends who weren’t Jewish. To tree or not to tree? I lived in houses where trees happened, I took strong measures against trees, I acquiesced in trees when my pre-ex plead his case that this had been what was wrong with the whole marriage (reductionist crazy talk and the women who let them—another subject.) I have decided that trees, like so many things, might be the subject of passionate position until one actually has a little perspective on life (and a little less passion in general. Hey, it’s a tree.)

I had years of alternating Scroogedom and buy-in. And then I finally achieved enlightenment (well, on the Christmas issue, anyway.)

This is the best time of the year to be Jewish. There are the neutrals and the positives. The neutrals: I’m not mangled by the mind-body-wallet suck of the retail holiday. My presents are restricted to wine, chocolate and cash. It’s an unusually good time to buy the first two; I buy bars and bottles by the dozen or half-dozen as I do my ordinary shopping so I have a bar or bottle to hand to anyone whenever the mood strikes me. I don’t wrap.

I don’t have to worry about the compromise or confusion of a significant spiritual moment with the financial, familial, logistical, decorative, sartorial, alimentary or entertainment requirements. I don’t have to do anything about any of these.

But I can. I’m often invited to gatherings where I can dress up or down as necessary or desired, make or purchase foodstuffs to share, grab a bar or bottle on my way out the door, and catch up with old friends, meet new ones or tear around like a crazy person. Or not.

On the positive side, this is a time when most people around me are so harried and hassled, preoccupied and stressed, over-committed and out of their element or trying madly to escape their element, and engaged in such strange and strenuous activities that no one would notice if I should happen to space out, nap, introspect or otherwise engage less in the world than I might normally feel pressure to do. In other words, when one is not part of the increasing spin, that spin itself can allow for a bit of a holiday. It’s a foul time to travel, yes, but it’s a fine time to nest.

There are a few negatives, of course: sound pollution in stores and offices; traffic jams; that travel issue… The incessant mostly awful music is good reminder to avoid shopping, the travel is reinforced by the climate and the pricing–now that I’m liberated from the school calendar I hardly mind. And the traffic? Well it’s one really lousy thing, isn’t it. I can’t have it all. But that sense of being the other? Each year it seems like a more comfortable quilt to wrap around me as I nestle into the window seat and count my chocolate bars. We Jews don’t encourage conversion, but if you’re crazy and frazzled? Well it might be one way to find a little peace next year.

*DISCLAIMER: I’m not launching in on some theological diatribe, so if you’re looking for conversion or even conversation in that direction, I must disappoint and I’m not willing to engage.

“Tomorrow you can see Diana’s new piece.” Diana lives next door to my hostess and she’s a Liturgical Choreographer, whatever that means. Delightful—a free dance performance in Manhattan.

On Sunday morning I head off on foot through Central Park to the Church where the performance will start at ten. Ten a.m. seems an odd time for a dance performance.

The wind is especially wicked, whipping my unsuspecting flesh through my gloves and past my lungs. Although I’m in my twenties, I’m gasping and teary-eyed. Mind you, I’m no winter wimp. In college, I walked that evil bridge across the Mississippi many many January Minnesota nights. My Chicago mile-to-school-up-hill-both-ways stories are in mothballs for future grandchildren. Cold weather in Manhattan is different, though—it’s windier and lonelier.

I’m wearing just about everything I brought to New York. The duck-hunter’s ugly down vest is poochyand brown long before either were fashionable. The black wool coat weighs me down and twists around my legs in the wind. I might as well have left my jeans and long underwear at home for all the good they do me.

Central Park is empty. I endure it and don’t see a person until I’m heading south on Park Avenue. He’s a mid fifties sort of guy in a black-diamond mink coat walking a well-dressed Airdale. Steam rises from both of them; I am invisible. That’s ok, I’m relieved to be walking measurable blocks alongside buildings. I can think about my destination rather than Jack London endings.

Oh I noticed that mink coat, all right. And the gracious buildings and classy cars. Sexy ladies from the eighties, hunh? I wonder if this might not be a fancier affair than I contemplated?

It’s Sunday morning, two weeks before Christmas. Am I heading toward a church service? Is this some special sort of day? I bet it is. Suddenly I notice a swarm of limousines at a large building in the next block.

I’d never go to my own religious services dressed anything like this, even if it wasn’t a special holiday season-sort of day. But here I am and it’s too cold to walk away. Besides, it’s all about the dance.

The limos and taxis discharge snow white winter suits, ermine collars, cashmere, sparkling hats, and pearls. The rabble wears mink. What was I thinking?

I get caught in the swirl of entry into the gracious old church building and head toward the front. I haven’t come this far not to see the choreography. I skip the first couple of rows in case there is some special obligation. I get a good view from a third-row seat.

My ermine-trimmed neighbor and I exchange greetings. Everything matches. It’s warm.

Oh to be one of those people who sit wrapped-up in her coat. But in my world it was rude and unwise to stay coated indoors. Too bad, I almost could have passed. The panels of black Forstmann wool are by far the best part of my outfit and my raggy jeaned legs would be mostly hidden. But now that I’ve stopped throwing my body against the wind my cheeks sting hot, hands turn red and I might pass out. The coat comes off and I stuff the vest under a pew.

I am the lost last-decade hippy chick, au too naturelle. Maybe there is something remotely charming in the ragamuffin’s struggle through the cold to worship. And, for all its ermine, a congregation that has half-nude modern dancers and a string quartet on its alter in 1978 must be fairly enlightened.

Enlightened perhaps, but my neighbor is also intent on seeing that I sing my way through the service. Her pointer thrusts into my hymnal for the many follow-on verses of O Little Town of Bethlehem.

“Gratitude.” Yes, I’m grateful for the heat and that there’s no confusing kneeler or footrest. “Collection plate.” If I could have parted with money, I would have taken a cab. But smiles abound and I’ve settled into my role as the Crampet’s older headstrong girl.

Finally it’s time for the dance—my excuse for exposing these lovely people to me. I recall nothing. Some thirty years later, it’s my sense of ignorance and surprise, the warmth of the space and the tolerance of my neighbors—the true spirit of Christmas all around me—that I remember.

How silently, how silently
The wondrous gift is giv’n
So God imparts to human hearts
The blessings of His heav’n.

“Tomorrow you can see Diana’s new piece.” Diana lives next door to my hostess and she’s a Liturgical Choreographer, whatever that means. Delightful—a free dance performance in Manhatten.

On Sunday morning I head off on foot through Central Park to the Church where the performance will start at ten. Ten a.m. seems an odd time for a dance performance.

The wind is especially wicked, whipping my unsuspecting flesh through my gloves and past my lungs. Although I’m in my twenties, I’m gasping and teary-eyed. Mind you, I’m no winter wimp. In college, I walked that evil bridge across the Mississippi many many January Minnesota nights. My Chicago mile-to-school-up-hill-both-ways stories are in mothballs for future grandchildren. Cold weather in Manhattan is different, though—it’s windier and lonelier.

I’m wearing just about everything I brought to New York. The duck-hunter’s ugly down vest is poochyand brown long before either were fashionable. The black wool coat weighs me down and twists around my legs in the wind. I might as well have left my jeans and long underwear at home for all the good they do me.

Central Park is empty. I endure it and don’t see a person until I’m heading south on Park Avenue. He’s a mid fifties sort of guy in a black-diamond mink coat walking a well-dressed Airdale. Steam rises from both of them; I am invisible. That’s ok, I’m relieved to be walking measurable blocks alongside buildings. I can think about my destination rather than Jack London endings.

Oh I noticed that mink coat, all right. And the gracious buildings and classy cars. Sexy ladies from the eighties, hunh? I wonder if this might not be a fancier affair than I contemplated?

It’s Sunday morning, two weeks before Christmas. Am I heading toward a church service? Is this some special sort of day? I bet it is. Suddenly I notice a swarm of limousines at a large building in the next block.

I’d never go to my own religious services dressed anything like this, even if it wasn’t a special holiday season-sort of day. But here I am and it’s too cold to walk away. Besides, it’s all about the dance.

The limos and taxis discharge snow white winter suits, ermine collars, cashmere, sparkling hats, and pearls. The rabble wears mink. What was I thinking?

I get caught in the swirl of entry into the gracious old church building and head toward the front. I haven’t come this far not to see the choreography. I skip the first couple of rows in case there is some special obligation. I get a good view from a third-row seat.

My ermine-trimmed neighbor and I exchange greetings. Everything matches. It’s warm.

Oh to be one of those people who sit wrapped-up in her coat. But in my world it was rude and unwise to stay coated indoors. Too bad, I almost could have passed. The panels of black Forstmann wool are by far the best part of my outfit and my raggy jeaned legs would be mostly hidden. But now that I’ve stopped throwing my body against the wind my cheeks sting hot, hands turn red and I might pass out. The coat comes off and I stuff the vest under a pew.

I am the lost last-decade hippy chick, au too naturelle. Maybe there is something remotely charming in the ragamuffin’s  struggle through the cold to worship. And, for all its ermine, a congregation that has half-nude modern dancers and a string quartet on its alter in 1978 must be fairly enlightened.

Enlightened perhaps, but my neighbor is also intent on seeing that I sing my way through the service. Her pointer thrusts into my hymnal for the many follow-on verses of O Little Town of Bethlehem.

“Gratitude.”  Yes, I’m grateful for the heat and that there’s no confusing kneeler or footrest. “Collection plate.” If I could have parted with money, I would have taken a cab. But smiles abound and I’ve settled into my role as the Crampet’s older headstrong girl.

Finally it’s time for the dance—my excuse for exposing these lovely people to me. I recall nothing.  Some thirty years later, it’s my sense of ignorance and surprise, the warmth of the space and the tolerance of my neighbors—the true spirit of Christmas all around me—that I remember.

How silently, how silently
The wondrous gift is giv’n
So God imparts to human hearts
The blessings of His heav’n.