If I could figure out what the spirit of the season is supposed to be, I might admit to starting to get into that spirit at last. I’m not talking about any of the various religious or cultural frameworks that add their particular flavors to the mélange of tradition that defines the season as we know it. All of that is for the true partisans.

In this particular minefield, I’m (a) a neutral observer, but also (2) an enthusiast, of sorts. Just because I don’t believe everything doesn’t make me an abstainer from comfort and joy and whatever other tidings and sentiments might be wafting through the air like the scent of grandma’s mince pies (another tradition I embrace more in the abstract than in actual indulgence).

It’s harder, when you live alone, to get into the spirit. But it’s also easier. Other people just complicate life so much, and most of them don’t think like you do, and sometimes they try too hard and sometimes they hardly try at all. Sharing the season can be rewarding, or it can be stressful, or (and this is usually the case) it can be both. It takes more of an effort to do it on your own, but then you can define it any way you choose. If I declare it a successful season, it is so by definition. My definition, of course.

So in the spirit of getting in the spirit, I put up the tree today. So far I haven’t hung any ornaments, but at this point I mainly wanted it up for the colored lights. I needed the colored lights to counteract the drabness of the sky outside. With clouds obscuring the meteor shower, I gave myself a little jolt of light and magic, less spectacular but totally reliable, as long as the electricity stays on.