This year I was not looking forward to the Christmas tree. An old friend had just died, my brother died last Christmas, and I’m getting to the age where my generation is slowly expiring. Well, that’s a depressing thought, but, according to one study, people with depression see the world more realistically. Yes, life ends, that’s reality.

So my husband and my granddaughter decorated the tree. The tree stands in front of my comfy chair, the one I sit in to read and/or write. I couldn’t help but see the tree. And the other day, just as I sat gazing at the tree in my usual habit of being lost in thoughts, I began to actually see the tree. It was beautiful. I saw the tiny lights, the glass balls, the chains of antique glass beads from my husband’s family, the ornaments with all their memories: of my mother, who loved the crocheted snowflakes, my first mother-in-law, who made so many of them, of my daughter’s childhood when we picked them out together, the grandchildren, my old friend who made the quirkiest ornaments.

I saw the sparkle, the magic, like a summer night filled with fireflies. Light in the darkness, love in the midst of sadness, life in the midst of death. So this December I wish you light: Christmas tree lights, Hanukkah candles, a bonfire for Solstice. The lights of hope.