I have a real Christmas Tree.
And when I say real, I mean we go to the mountains and find a “wild” tree. Like we hunt for it.
And though these trees are by no means perfect. In fact there have been so many years that I rarely have enough branches to put a strand of lights on. But these trees are what I know.
And now…. my son cuts them down and drags them out.
And while the trees are not perfect… the experience, the day in the mountains… is so… needed. I need to breathe the air. I need to feel the snow. I need to get cold for a little bit.
And he gets to sled, even if there isn’t much snow.
And then I get to eat at a little place down the mountain. And even though it might take an hour to get a bowl of green chili, it’s worth it.
And then, when it’s here…. it’s decorated with ornaments. Not perfect matching ones, but ornaments from all over the world. And ornaments I made. And ornaments my son made. Years of ornaments. And it’s not perfect. But nothing ever is, so why should a Christmas tree? I struggle with perfect. It doesn’t exist.
