It’s going to be perfect.
That’s what I tell myself every year as I spruce up the place and dive into holiday planning. First, the house. Starting with a full-blown mantel attack—the pine garland glitters with white lights, adorable ceramic snowmen, an angel or two, and shiny ornaments. Some ostrich feathers and white balls of fur? Sure, throw those in for extra festivity.
Next, the tree. It beckons like an empty canvas waiting to become a masterpiece. There are no rules. Right? Shake up the colors, perhaps a gold, silver, and blush theme this year, a dash of antique white and emerald glass ornaments. Who can argue with that?
Oh, the gifts. It’s the most wonderful time of the year. With good intent and grand excitement, I make the list for the ones I love.
Delicious baking smells waft all around. I’ll light all the candles and perfume the house with vanilla, pine, oatmeal cookies, a spicy pumpkin dash of this, and a floral dash of that.
The delightful table. I’ll play with the place settings endlessly. This plate? No. That plate? Yes. Cut glass salad plates for a layered effect? Yes. Let’s do. Alternating chargers of gold and silver? Or perhaps the rattan chargers for a rustic flare of casual comfort this year?
The fantasy is underway. Interior spaces planned for perfection.
Then comes the meal. Serving pieces and utensils come out to play, and (as always), I’ll tuck a slip of paper inside to label its job. It’s a helpful system. When the crew congregates and people need direction to the closet for their coat, and a beverage to wet their whistle, or a lovely appetizer to start their evening, fear not. I can still focus on what dish holds the potatoes and the beans and what basket receives the rolls. My little notes instill calm.
And that’s part of this perfection fantasy. Calm.
But I learned a long time ago (from the wisdom of my mother) that the holidays are a fitting metaphor for life. We expect it to go one way. We make plans. And we strive for perfection.
But spoiler alert! Life doesn’t always go according to plan. We know the saying. We plan. God laughs. (And when I say calm, God laughs louder.)
Something always throws a wrench into the revelry.
Thanksgiving this year, case in point. Same fantasy, same organization, same full force dedication to perfection. Guests gathered. The mood, merry. Then, the turkey thermometer pinged a proclamation of doneness.
The beautifully browned bird emerged from the oven under the glaze of anticipatory eyes. The oohs and the awes. My husband, the designated carver, wielded the gleaming knife straight into our holiday protein, and oh no! That bird was a pink shade of not done.
The wide eyes of my family and friends narrowed as their bodies, ever so slightly, recoiled.
Through thick-as-butter tension in the air, I imagined their thoughts. She’s not going to serve us raw turkey, is she?
“Nothing to see here!” I said cheerfully. Shooing their eyes away, back into the oven goes the bird. (Note to self: Get an accurate meat thermometer!)
“Carry on and make yourselves comfortable. We just need a little more time,” I said as nonchalantly as I could muster. But inside, a realization. This is the moment. Pop! There goes the bubble of perfection.
In life, I call it the certainty of uncertainty. During the holidays, I call it the certainty of joyful chaos.
My traditional mother (who loves a gracious table and formal gathering) taught me to embrace the chaos. There will always be a moment that punctures the perfection. And when that inevitable holiday hiccup happens, my mom waltzes over with her mischievous grin, and says, “Remember… this is the fun part!”
During holidays (and in life), I’ve learned she’s right.
Because things rarely go according to plan. But when we muddle through surrounded by people we love, it’s not the plan that matters. It’s that we’re all gathered in one place, at one time, together. A shimmering house, gifts topped with ribbons and bows, a magazine-worthy table setting—even an (im)perfectly executed meal—they are all worthless in an empty home.
So, this holiday season, amidst the attempts at perfection and messy, joyful chaos, remember this; it’s really the people that make it perfect.