It was my favorite album, and I showed it.
It didn’t matter what time of the year it was. Whether we were experiencing the sweltering heat of April, the inclement weather of August, or the chilly wind of December, I would play “Christmas in Our Hearts” in the car radio. At home, I would bring my radio around with the CD playing.
My parents quickly tired of the soundtrack. “Why are you playing Christmas songs in the middle of July?” they said. “Wait until the ‘ber’ months.” I was an obedient child, so I put the CD away. Much to their annoyance, however, I started playing the songs again exactly on Sept. 1. How pilosopo of me, they remarked.
But I wasn’t trying to get on their nerves. I couldn’t help it: Christmas songs have this air of magic about them that no other genre can replicate. Nothing else was effective as a panacea to my sorrows. With every ringing bell, each wound was slowly healed.
I’ve moved on to other Christmas albums. Although Jose Mari Chan’s album is still dear to me, I’ve added various songs to my Christmas playlist, including instrumental versions of classics, contemporary Christmas songs, and covers by some of my favorite artists. Still, it’s my go-to playlist when nothing else works.
I’ve often wondered why this is so. There are many other songs that speak to me more. And Christmas songs are practically irrelevant to my actual experiences, as I’ve never traipsed through a winter wonderland, been on a sleigh ride, seen Santa Claus come to town, or decked the halls with boughs of holly. Yet I still sing every word of the songs I do know. Perhaps it is because these songs are the only remnants of the magical trance Christmas triggered in me when I was a young child.
I loved passing by Granada on the way home. I would be thankful for the Christmas traffic in those instances, if only because it gave me time to watch lit-up figures of Santa Claus and his reindeer race through the same spot repeatedly. I would wish on the decorative stars that were also being sold by the roadside. I clung to the brief glimpses I got. At home, after all, the best we had was a string of fluorescent lights around our Christmas tree.
Don’t get me wrong. Having lights of our own was spectacular in its own right. I remember coming home, turning off all the lights in the living room, and sitting by the sofa to admire the light show. In retrospect, all that ever happened was that the bulbs alternated in lighting up. But it didn’t seem that way to me then. It was the most magical sight in the world. My world became much brighter, and my problems all faded away.
The Christmas tree looked even more magnificent with all the presents underneath. I didn’t particularly care what the contents of the boxes were. I just liked the mystery and sharpened curiosity that came with them. I used to wake up early every Christmas morning just so I could finally get some answers. Each package brought me joy, as it was a testimony that someone remembered me well enough and long enough to get me that present. It was as good a reason as any to feel grateful.
Now, with a different route on my way home, I see only headlights. Even our Christmas tree is gone, as the ever increasing need for more furniture has rendered it impossible to find a spot on which it could stand. The opening of gifts became increasingly less of a ceremony over the years. I no longer wait until Christmas morning; I just open each package whenever I can. Christmas songs, while soothing, no longer banished all my problems, as they did before.
I fear that I am helpless to stop this disappearance of wonder. I fear that even Christmas songs will become ineffective someday. I fear that it will take a lot more than sparkling lights to remind me that everything will be all right somehow. My greatest fear, however, is that the loss of wonder may happen even in everyday experiences. I don’t want to stop appreciating the little things.
Some may question my sources of awe. Some may say that the real meaning of the season has been lost in the glitter of the Christmas decorations displayed around the city and on the presents beneath the Christmas tree. But I beg to differ. At its core, Christmas is a celebration of love. The impetus for love may lie in tangible objects—they are not innately bad, after all. As with anything else, they can be abused. But Christmas lights shed light on the beauty of the world.
Presents contain the love for which people cannot find words. It’s a lot better than nothing.
“Christmas is not a time or a season, but a state of mind,” Calvin Coolidge once said. My Christmas wish is in line with that. I hope I can feel the magic of Christmas again. I hope that it will live on—not just during the “ber” months, but throughout the year. I hope that the rest of the world can experience it as well. It would be wonderful if everyone can continue to marvel at anything and everything again.
We don’t have to go back to believing in Santa Claus. We can, however, go back to believing in the goodness the world has to offer. Christmas miracles happen all the time; we just need to remember what we knew as children.
We just need to have Christmas in our hearts again.
Patricia Celina Ngo, 19, is a management engineering student at Ateneo de Manila University.