There is a kind of beauty in imperfection. Conrad Hall
Christmas Eve is alight with anticipation. The presents are wrapped, baking complete, salads prepared and decorations in place. Coloured lights flash in the Christmas tree and a certain magic fills the house. Only three hours until our friends will arrive for our annual Christmas Eve celebrations. I find the red candle holders and little tinsel tree to decorate the table, and pull out my best platters. Now where is the table-cloth? Last year after a succession of tacky plastic Santa cloths I splashed out at David Jones on an elegant white cloth. Eventually I find it at the bottom of the linen cupboard, hastily washed after last Christmas, but obviously not ironed.
The three-hour window of time fades to two as I push a hot iron over and over the wrinkly white cloth. No matter how much steam and Fabulon I use, the wrinkles won’t budge. Then I notice a pink tinge, the remnants of last years’ late afternoon musings over several bottles of Merlot. We must have been talking with our hands, with wineglasses still in them, as we solved the problems of the world.
I remember last Christmas. After Santa’s visit to my boys, I packed a picnic for the nursing home and met my sister and her family there. We sipped champagne and nibbled on cheese, biscuits and chips. Mum ate nothing and I spoke brightly, giving my sons gifts from Nanna while she looked on blankly. I gave her ‘Beautiful’ perfume and matching body lotion, holding it up to her as I unwrapped it. I wanted the morning to be perfect. Next to us a DVD played karaoke Christmas carols, well-known songs accompanied by clichéd Christmas scenes. The carols were simply background noise until Silent Night began playing. Mum looked at me then, eyes shining, and began to sing. With a melodious voice and word-perfect, she sang the entire song, and I sang along with her through my tears. No longer able to speak, her words returned in the lines of this carol. Silent Night brought Mum back to us briefly. It had always been her favourite.
It was hard leaving Mum at the nursing home on special days. We trailed back to our house for the usual mish-mash of Christmas fare, bon-bons and presents. By evening I was feeling weary but relaxed in the soothing company of my family, our conversation expansive and the wine flowing.
Thankfully my Christmas Eve friends aren’t the types to notice a few pink stains on a table-cloth. I lay it out on the table and add the decorations. It is still wrinkly, and pink around the edges, but it looks festive all the same. Chris comes in and says ‘Don’t you think you should iron that?‘ and I laugh.
I haven’t sung Silent Night this year as Mum is no longer here to sing it with me. Perhaps by next year I’ll be able to sing it again. I suspect the cloth will gain more colour tonight – perhaps some seafood sauce or chocolate cheesecake, and I’ll soak it and wash it again. Next year there will be some new stains – memories of another Christmas spent with people I love.
Every Christmas I have an irrational desire for the perfect day and the perfect life. Yet what is perfection anyway? A white table-cloth without stain or wrinkle to impress my friends? A life without pain or heartache, spent guarding my heart? Or is my challenge to live with the spills and stains, the pain of loving people and losing them, and the knowledge that nothing ever stays the same? Next year I’ll iron the white table-cloth again, and remember that a few stains and wrinkles never hurt anyone. In fact it is imperfection and difficult times that have the potential to transform us and to form our most cherished memories.
At the end of my life, I hope that all my tablecloths have little stains and worn places, badges of honor to show that they were used to have good times with friends and family. I also hope that whoever inherits them will have the sense to throw them out, buy new ones and make their own memories!
Yes I agree! The saddest thing to find in someone’s linen cupboard is a whole stack of unused tablecloths and towels saved for a special day which never came. I’m sure there will be very little to keep from my cupboard… Thanks for reading Tracy
I think there is that desire when planning any festive occasion to want it to be perfect, not so much about how it makes us look, but to ensure that the recipients feel spoilt. I think we do it more out of love for those we are sharing the time with. Your place is always warm and inviting, and if there are any stains I would no doubt suggest that one of my family were partially responsible at some point in time! One of your giftings is in hospitality. I could see you opening a B&B in the country one day!
There have been many challenges in the year that has past – and I hope and pray that our lives will only be richer for them for the year ahead. May there be more stains and spills, and marks that remain a permanent reminder of friendship and times shared in 2012.
Very well said, Carol – Here’s to another messy but memorable year! I’m not sure about the B & B though – it may be a little like Faulty Towers