Back in the 50s, when I was still a kid, I remember loving Christmas so much that I dated each year from Christmas to Christmas. Which, now that I know more, was close to the ancient tradition of dating the year from Winter Solstice to Winter Solstice.

Back then, our large family (eight kids, with me the oldest) observed all the standard traditions, with the tree, the decorating of the tree, the gifts underneath the tree, Christmas carols, Christmas morning breakfast, Christmas dinner later with pumpkin pie, and holiday lights outside. Plus, a subtle, pervasive current of joy and wonder that seemed to envelop the whole world. But what especially moved me as a child, was the tree’s fresh evergreen scent. Of course I didn’t realize that evergreen trees and branches were symbols of immortality, due to being able to thrive through even the coldest seasons. Symbols that hearken back literally thousands of years. Was this scent the source of our joy? Was this scent the instinctive trace of an immense, mysterious human lineage?

Not surprisingly, the idea of a plastic tree — one which didn’t leave a mess, which didn’t need to be watered, or hauled on top of the car year after year — still turns me off. (Unless, that is, as I found out from sister Paula yesterday, you keep your plastic tree, decorated, up all year long — in the library, relatively private — and when in need of cheer, just turn on the lights!)

A decade later, I was in my 20s, with a narcissistic husband and two young sons. I still dated the years from Christmas to Christmas, but now my experience of the season had drastically altered. The supernal meaning of Christmas had catapulted, for me, into a black hole. (Brief explanation: I had married a man I admired for his talent, but did not love; and my sons were both “accidents.” In short, this freedom-loving double Sagittarian felt utterly imprisoned, my life over.)

Yet I knew I had to keep the spirit of Christmas going, for Sean and Colin. The prospect of which, and then, at Christmas time, the reality of which, filled me with dread, gloom. As a result, I had to fake cheerfulness, and all the traditions I and my family practiced earnestly and joyfully as a child. (Christmas was not the only time I had to “fake it” to get by. My dreams were full of masks. Little did I realize that 60 years later, so would the whole world be.)

In my 30s I discovered the goddess, paganism, gnosticism — and Winter Solstice! Plus, I began to study astrology, so the idea of an annual mysterious, magical moment when the night, having fully eclipsed the day, paused, and began to recede, took on the fullness of meaning.

Solstice eclipsed Christmas, for me; as it has ever since.