An existential holiday slump foiled by a fake plastic tree
Image source: The Garbage Lady
I'll be honest: I'm finding it a challenge to feel joy this holiday season. The US election results portend setbacks against climate change and the plastic crisis (among so many other things), the climate deal of COP29 was severely insufficient, and the summit for a global treaty to end plastic pollution ended in a stalemate. Wars. Homelessness in my county has increased 28% since 2022 as a result of unaffordable housing. All the while, Black Friday, Cyber Monday, pre-sales, and post-sales have been beckoning relentlessly for us to fill our carts with microplastics, forever chemicals, planned obsolescence, and slave labor. Plastic reindeer that poop jellybeans and yodeling pickles don't lighten the mood; instead, I curse their inevitable landfilled existence.
Joy, you are increasingly difficult to find amidst the towering piles of overconsumption and greed, and you are difficult to feel when anxiety, anger, and remorse have taken up so much space. I have to remind myself that achieving difficult things is easier when you don't do it alone, and the same premise applies to finding joy. Connection is key. Gratitude helps.
Connection and gratitude surfaced over the weekend, when we decorated our diminutive Christmas tree with decades of fond memories. The tree itself evoked a memory, contrary to the typical one where we would drive to a parking lot of evergreens on a blustery night, sipping hot cider or cocoa, settling on a tree of decent height, shape, and price, then strapping it to the roof of the car, heading home, and propping it on the porch to settle. No, this memory is from twelve years ago, the day my spouse and kids brought home a fake plastic tree. I was mortified. I hated it and its fake cones and berries. It was tiny, too, clearing just over four feet. It was an insult to me and the holiday spirit.
I've made peace with that fake plastic tree, and it's been the centerpiece of our holiday decor since it entered our lives. I can now appreciate it for what it offers. We've saved a considerable sum by not buying a real tree each year. It doesn't drop needles and doesn't need watering. At the end of the season, we don't haul it curbside for compost pick up but tuck it away neatly for next year. I don't feel quite as bad knowing that our continued use has offset it's carbon footprint, according to the debate on whether real or fake trees or better for the planet. (We opted for a live tree once, but neglect happened and it died.)
I'm not advocating fake trees. The one we have will eventually end up in a landfill, and it will persist long after the last ever holiday celebration. But for now, our fake little tree casts a shadow on my existential slump as it calls for gatherings with family and friends and expressions of gratitude. It brings focus to what's good. It invites us to cherish memories and form new ones around it. It gives reprieve from worry by creating a space where joy can have its moments. Thank you, little tree.
The tree might be fake, but it's giving holiday realness
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