I have been tasked this year with reflecting on the "December Dilemma." At first, I thought that for me, this was mostly a non-issue. My mother has gotten tired of big holiday celebrations, my brother never liked them to begin with, and my husband, Chris (ironically nicknamed "Christ" by our close friends), hates Christmas. He dislikes putting up Christmas decorations, despises the hassle of holiday shopping, and thinks that December 21st is too early for Christmas music. It would seem like all I need to do is suggest we forget the presents, grab some Chinese, and go to a movie. December dilemma dealt with. But this week, I realized it was so much more than that.
Last year, I wanted to celebrate Chanukah as a way of practicing Judaism. It was a significant step on my Jewish journey, as if lightning Chanukah candles was the means for me to officially cross a threshold into a Jewish space. Or maybe a Jewish state of mind. It was certainly the first time I felt moved to write about my journey, which made the conversion process more real than before. Significant though it was, it was also lonely.
Each afternoon, after coming home from work, I would stand on the porch and stumble through the blessings I had looked up online. I would light candles and... that was it. It was anti-climactic, especially because I didn't exactly want to stand out in the frigid November air to admire the lights. As much as I love luminarias, they're better enjoyed with people. Lights typically are.
That's the thing about the winter solstice. I read somewhere that Christmas and Chanukah have different themes. Christmas is about joy and Chanukah is about victory and survival. And while on some level I understand this, every solstice holiday I've encountered seems to be about hope. It's about finding light and warmth during the darkest and coldest time of year. And that light doesn't really come from the candles, it comes from each other. When you light a Chanukah menorah, after all, you are literally passing light from one candle to another, symbolizing how we pass hope to one another during dark times. Many a Christmas Eve service operates under the same principal--with a flame passing through the whole congregation, as each member lights their candle off that of the person next to them. But that kind of symbolism can fall flat when you're lighting candles solo.
This year, I went to Temple Shalom's Chanukah party and celebrated with the rest of the conversion crew. I now have an indoor menorah (in addition to my lunimarias) and by the light of the first Chanukah candle, I learned that I am terrible at dreidel. But Monday, I once again lit my candles at home, all alone. Tuesday, I had dinner with my mother, so I brought the menorah to her house. We lit candles together, and they burned cheerfully while we worked our way through episodes of Northern Exposure. I missed my dad a lot that night because he liked traditions. And I think he would have enjoyed sharing this one with me.
On Wednesday, my Introduction to Judaism class lit candles together over Zoom. And on Thursday, Chris commented that I was lurking in the dark, despite the fact that he frequently wanders the house at night without bothering to turn on lights. Friday was so cold I struggled to keep my luminarias lit, but through resiliance and determination prevailed in the end. We had planned to visit Chris's family on Saturday, and I would have brought my menorah there, but the roads were too icey. So I brought it to my mom's again today, only we left before sunset, again due to road conditions. That was a little disppointing. I liked the idea of lighting the eighth candle as part of our family's Christmas celebration. But I lit them at home with Chris sort of looking on.
Writing the story day by day like this feels like the creation of a picture book. Only there's no uplifting finale. Just me, in the dark, watching eight candles burn down. Then a solid black page. It turns out my December dilemma has less to do with finding a balance between Chanukah and Christmas and more about accepting that being perhaps the only Jew in Berryville, Arkansas, is going to get pretty lonely at times. But I can't end this here. Because solstice holidays are about hope. And it's actually pretty poignant to watch the last of the candles flicker into curls of smoke. It would be more appropriate to end along the lines of my favorite winter holiday book, The Secret Staircase by Jill Barklem, which reminds us that the longest night of the year is also the beginning of longer days and more light. On the last page, strike a match. The end of Chanukah isn't the end of hope, but the beginning of something new.
