I know you aren’t the big, cuddly, red-clothed, larger-than-life man portrayed here.
I know you don’t have a Naughty list or a Nice list. Or elves.
I know that you probably wear much thinner, cooler clothes in the Southern Hemisphere.
I know you aren’t Santa.
But I did want you to know, you who are planning to give me anything at all for Christmas, that the kindness is eternal.
I like to think of phoenixes as embodying hope, since they never fail to rise from the ashes. I think the human race needed something visual to describe the phenomenom of hope, and its resilience.
Santa, I think, is the happiness of receiving a gift. That spirit of generosity and vitality. The abashment that gives rise to goofy grins and and embarrassed blushes. The overwhelming gratitude that leads to heartfelt hugs and loving pecks on the cheek.
I was extremely put off when I found out Santa wasn’t real. Christmas lost its meaning without the magical character that sleighed across the skies. It took me a portion of my (relatively) young life to realise that that isn’t true, is it? Santa is there. Santa is there in your very decision to get me something for Christmas, whoever you are. Physically the big, red man is as real as a double-horned unicorn. But he are there, in the unwrapping of the gifts and the anticipation on the eve of Christmas. He is the hope we feel is bursting out of us when see the presents, the uncontrollable rush of excitement that forces a smile to our face. He is there in every action that defies vice or sin, acts of pure generosity.
We only acquire wisdom when it’s too late to do us any good, I read somewhere once. And I am ashamed about how I was blinded to the spirit of Christmas in those years when I discovered Santa wasn’t tangible like my toys. I let human nature take over the human spirit, and I only cared for the fact that I was receiving free gifts. But this little spiel doesn’t have to do me good, does it, Santa? It is what we do for others that counts, you know this better than anyone.
I know it’s a little cliche now, you who wish to send me presents for Christmas, but it is the journey that counts. It’s eve of Christmas we should cherish, not Christmas day. That it’s the unwrapping we should relish, not the present. It’s the tantalising scent of the roast our stomachs groan at, not the meat itself.
When we look at those moments slighty askew, at the very edges of existence where real meets imagined, there is Santa. So whatever those who this letter concerns wish to send to me, I will receive with eternal thanks.
