Festive — Season

The festive season is a trick we play on time. For a few brief weeks, we pretend that generosity is the default, that family is always functional, and that tomorrow will be better than yesterday. It is a lie, of course. A beautiful, necessary, life-affirming lie.

You laughed until your ribs hurt. You danced badly. You ate the cake. You held someone’s hand a little too long.

But during the festive season, we willingly suspend reality. We stay up until 2 a.m. wrapping gifts in shapes that defy geometry. We drive forty-five minutes to see a single inflatable Santa on a neighbour’s roof. We eat carbs without apology. festive season

By J. Harper

The table does not care about your politics, your bank balance, or your failed resolutions from last January. The table only asks that you pull up a chair. And then, as suddenly as it began, it ends. The last cracker is pulled. The last candle burns down. The last guest leaves a forgotten scarf on the banister. The festive season is a trick we play on time

And when next November rolls around, and you feel that first shiver of anticipation, you will lie again. Willingly. Enthusiastically. Because the human heart, it turns out, needs tinsel as much as it needs bread.

The festive season magnifies everything. If you are happy, you become euphoric. If you are lonely, you become desolate. If you are grieving, the carols cut like glass. A beautiful, necessary, life-affirming lie

In a world that grows more digital and distant by the minute, the festive season remains stubbornly physical. You cannot DM a hug. You cannot Zoom the smell of a pine tree. You cannot algorithmic your way into a spontaneous kitchen dance party while washing champagne glasses at midnight. Let us speak of the table. Whether it is a six-foot mahogany antique or a wobbling IKEA leaf with a stain on the corner, the festive table is the true altar of the season.