A couple of weeks ago, on a crisp morning walk with my dog, an idea popped into my mind as softly as the season itself. Instead of the usual post-Thanksgiving whirlwind of hauling out bins, untangling lights, and transforming the house in a single weekend, I decided this year would be different. This year, I would let the Christmas season arrive slowly.
Fall is fading, most of the leaves have fallen. My chickens are peacefully nestled in their coop by 4:30 these days, Winter is getting closer.
There’s a quietness to this in-between time, when the world hasn’t yet frozen, but it’s still dressed in color. The air feels thinner, somehow clearer. The sunlight ends early, prompting us to slow down.
I notice the small outdoor sounds more now: the soft rustle of straw when the hens settle in for the night, the squirrels rushing through bare branches, the distant hush of a season shifting. Even the dusk feels heavier, like it’s wrapping itself around the house a little earlier each evening.
Soon there will be frost on the car windows and woodsmoke in the air, but for now, it’s this quiet anticipation, a pause before winter truly arrives.
It started with a single candle. I lit it in the kitchen one evening, just to chase the early dark, and the tiny flame made the room feel warmer than the radiators ever could. The next night, I added another candle in the living room, then one in the foyer, then the bedroom. I draped fairy lights over a couple of doors and the kitchen sink. Soon, each room had its own small glow, like the house was breathing a little easier, welcoming this Yuletide season, in the quiet hours just before nightfall.
Decorations began appearing the same way, gently, without hurry. I would pull out and open the closest bin. A wreath on the door and then a little ceramic house glowing from within, as if it had a secret to tell. I’ve got a long way to go, leaving the tree for last, letting the anticipation build, savoring the slow unfurling of tradition. The dining room has the last vestiges of fall, pumpkins and colored leaves litter the table, set for a big November birthday party, and lastly; Thanksgiving.
My dog seemed to sense the shift too. She padded from room to room, curling up in front of the fire or wherever the candlelight pooled the warmest. In the soft illumination, the ordinary felt enchanted.
There has been something peaceful about not rushing, about letting the season settle into the house the way snow settles on rooftops, one quiet flake at a time. For the first time in years, I felt like I wasn’t decorating for Christmas; I was welcoming it.
Kate Emery General is a retired chef/restaurant owner who was born and raised in Casper, Wyoming. Kate loves her grandchildren, knitting, and watercolor painting. Kate and her husband, Matt are longtime residents of Cambridge’s West End where they enjoy swimming and bicycling.
