Tomorrow is Christmas. So they say. From where I sit by a glittering tree and a warm fire it started weeks ago. The marionette service, the tableaux, the preschool play, the string of kindnesses that have brightened each day all feel like a miracle. I have no excuse to postpone feeling blessed. 

Yesterday I made kite stars. Their beauty comes from folding eight squares of paper and gluing them into a star. The repetition is soothing. Our family has been crafting them since before the twins were born, and their translucent color has graced our windows long into spring when I saw no reason to take them down. I cut snowflakes, because there is a new child to love in our extended family, and even though he cannot spell his name, it is precious. Today I will dip and decorate beeswax candles, to store up the glow that is the yin of honey's yang. John will play the piano, which may have to compete with Ben's perpetual computer chatter. No matter. The music still reaches me. 

There will probably be a few video calls, from our adult kids who have their own Douglas firs and plans. Their faces will be the gifts I open, their voices adding to the acoustic joy. This will of course happen between their escapades, like skiing in the French Alps, and enjoying the displays in Philly. 

In the muted evenings I have rewatched movies whose words I remember well. The Little Princess, Charlie Brown Christmas, Little Women. It turns out that knowing how it ends takes nothing from my happiness. 

I can't tell if the opulence is the result of an actual increase in blessings, or in my capacity to savor what has been here all along. I cry more easily than I did when I was masterminding the culmination of a large family celebration. Or at least my tears are from tenderness rather than frustration.