Now accepting recommendations for holiday movies. Here’s my current list, which runs the gamut:

• ‘Auntie Mame‘
• ‘The Man Who Came to Dinner‘
• ‘Carol‘
• ‘Love Actually’
• ‘The Family Stone’
• ‘Meet Me In St. Louis‘
• ‘A Christmas Story’
• ‘Scrooged’
• ‘Home Alone’
• ‘The Bishop’s Wife’

Some of these I watch faithfully every year, some of them I only visit once in a great while. I’m always looking for new suggestions. (You’ll also notice a few glaring omissions, so if you have a compelling reason for me to revisit ‘It’s A Wonderful Life’ or ‘Miracle on 34th Street’ I’m open to hearing it.) 

This is not a feel-good Christmas post.

If you’ve come here looking for holiday spirit or happiness, move along.

Seriously, keep going. Do not pause here. Do not read further. Come back another time. Closed.

Anyone who remains is going to get an earful of Christmas sass and a slap of cold hard truth.

When I was a kid, my favorite television episodes were those that had a holiday theme to them. Some tied in little variations of the Scrooge story, some threw in the birth of Jesus, some just made their usually-snarky villains experience a momentary reprieve from their evil ways – a softening and brief suspension of their otherwise-integral shit-stirring.

I loved these episodes because they made it seem like Christmas had the power to change an asshole from an asshole into a decent person. They made me believe that redemption was possible, that it was never too late to become “nice” and “good” and all that stuff. And for one shining sitcom/drama moment, maybe it was.

The funny thing about this televised version of Christmas, as well as the real-life commercialized extravaganza itself, is that for that one moment you start to believe that most of the world is good, that most people will, if given the choice, do the right thing. And it makes you feel good.

Then a day passes.

Then two.

Soon it’s New Year’s Day and all you do is make wishes for your own self, your own wants, your own resolutions and desires. You forget the good that Christmas briefly brought. You forget and you forget and all that is left is some dim memory of happiness that you will attempt to rekindle next year.

There are worse things, I suppose. But not after you realize what you’re doing. Not after you realize how it works, how hollow it all ends up being. Once you realize that, you are complicit and guilty of the game. That’s why some people have children, I imagine. To start it all over again. To try to make the good stick. To try to make the good into something real and lasting.

But it isn’t.

It wasn’t.

It never will be.

When I was a little boy, one of my favorite things to do in the days leading up to Christmas was to crawl beneath the Christmas tree when it was lit at night and look up into the branches. From this interior vantage point, I was both secretly concealed (I always liked to be hidden) and afforded views no one else had. I was within looking out, and that’s one of the best views to have.

Behind the thick exterior of pine needles, the inside area opened up. Where less light reached, a thinning of branches occurred. Foliage wise, the interior of a Christmas tree can be hollow. One could see clearly the beauty of the trunk, the architecture of the branches and the congealed rivulets of sap. One could follow in the footsteps of chipmunks and squirrels, tracing how they might climb and disperse to evade predators, or where they might hide their plunder. Illuminated by Christmas lights, the natural beauty of the tree found particular splendor. I stayed there, pondering the prettiness of the season, holding onto my childhood because I already knew that life would only get more difficult. 

The heart of a tree is a private place, and only in such secrecy could I be comfortable enough to show my pain.

This year I remembered the balm of being in the midst of such beauty.  On a night otherwise filled with sadness, I pulled a pillow from the couch and worked my way under the lower limbs of the tree. I looked up and into the branches closest to the trunk. This tree that I’d grown for fourteen years, this perfectly-imperfect piece of nature and wonder – it held its sharp needles tightly to itself, as dearly as I held onto childhood memories. 

No matter how old I get, there is still wonder and pain there. Here. 

Beneath the prickly boughs, salty gratitude and anger like the sea rolled over my face.